


Across a Crow'ded Room

by antivan-beau (sheepsinthenight)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action, Antivan Crows, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Humor, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Polyamory, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 04:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepsinthenight/pseuds/antivan-beau
Summary: Zevran and Taliesen have survived brutal apprenticeships to become full-fledged Antivan Crows. Reveling in their newfound freedom, they’ve developed reputations for completing contracts… creatively. When their latest mission goes awry, they’re given one last chance to get back into House Arainai’s good graces. Working with a new strategist, Rinna, they're instructed to assassinate the Antivan King's reclusive advisor. However, the three of them find that they have chemistry beyond their professional specialties. This gets inconvenient.Zevran's problematic exes: the origin story.
Relationships: Rinna/Taliesen, Zevran Arainai/Rinna, Zevran Arainai/Rinna/Taliesen, Zevran Arainai/Taliesen
Comments: 96
Kudos: 51





	1. At the Palazzo Estrada

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy! This opening chapter gives a good benchmark for "canon-typical violence." Other CWs for this fic include murder, torture, mentions of past abuse (references to Crow training), and alcohol (including some mild mixing of drinking and sex.) Despite what those might lead you to believe, I'm here for a fun time, not a gritty one. Origins itself has a darker overall vibe than this story.

"To us! The cleverest Crows in House Arainai."

"And the handsomest.”

Two glasses clinked softly in toast before their contents were downed. A gauzy curtain fluttered in the breeze from the open balcony. Moonlight spilled across the mosaic floor, illuminating two pairs of boots on two men who sat upon the tile. They lounged with their backs against the foot of a four-poster bed. Their faces and the rest of the room were in shadow.

After a companionable silence, the first voice spoke again. It was a rough, smoky baritone, and had the tone of someone slightly inebriated but trying to stay quiet. "I heard Maestro Rondeau had money on us fucking up. Imagine his face when we tell him."

The second voice was brighter, more expressive, but no more sober. "Imagine his face if he learned we’d finished off Conde Estrada’s 9:05 vintage."

"Hmm. Purple with indignation. Yet resolute when he ordered the shit beaten out of us." An amiable pause, before, "Hang on - finished? We haven't finished it, have we?"

A bottle was shaken, producing a sloshing sound. "Nearly, but I might be persuaded to share. Admit you're glad I came along for this contract, Taliesen."

"Sure. You pulled your weight."

The second man’s next words came out in a suggestive purr. "Tell me how grateful you are that you lost that game of Wicked Grace two months ago."

Taliesen let out bark of laughter, both chagrined and defiant. "I would have fucked you without the pretense, eventually. But that night was the beginning of something… exceptional."

"Ah, good enough. Finally, concede that without my aptitude for planning, you could never have reached the Conde."

"Zevran, his body's still cooling on the balcony - " Taliesen made some move in the darkness. The sounds of a scuffle, curses, and low laugher swelled and faded. A brown hand thrust the bottle into the shaft of moonlight and shook it impudently out of reach.

Zevran's voice was warm. "Concede it and the last of this truly excellent wine is yours."

The bottle was withdrawn. Leather armor creaked as they settled comfortably against each other in the darkness.

Taliesen began again. "Well, I wouldn't have known about his affair with Doña Oristano. Wouldn't have known about their occasional weekends at his palazzo. And probably wouldn't have thought of the ridiculous scheme to false-face as window repairmen…” His coda was a prideful drawl. “But I would have found a way to kill him without you."

Zevran sighed theatrically. "You had your chance." Another scuffle, punctuated by a swift gulp of wine.

"Bastard. Wonder if the Conde has another in here." One pair of boots disappeared from the lighted patch on the floor as Taliesen made to rise, but his companion pulled him back down again.

"You know, it's a great pity," Zevran began conversationally. His voice was low and lilting in the darkness. "Some of the finest wine in Antiva, wasted on a nobleman with no taste. Along with one of the finest beds outside of the royal palace." The knock of knuckles against wood. "What's this, inlaid mahogany? And these sheets - Orlesian silk, I'd guess."

"Zevran, that is unspeakably stupid.”

"What did I say!"

"You didn't say it, but I know what you were thinking and it's foolish even for you.”

Zevran said mildly, "Foolish not to take opportunities that present themselves."

"You're always presenting yourself,” Taliesen grumbled.

"And you're always taking me." Zevran's smirk was practically audible. He shifted positions so he, too, was entirely in shadow. His next words were quieter, muffled as if spoken against skin. "This whole floor is empty. All of Conde Estrada’s servants saw him stumble to bed early after overindulging on brandy. None of them saw me drug his second glass, and none of them saw you enter this room. No one will be up here until dawn."

Taliesen started a half-hearted objection, but Zevran did something in the darkness that put a hitch in his breathing. Silence fell abruptly, punctuated only by ragged breath and the ignominious sounds of less-than-sober snogging. Eventually, Taliesen pulled away to mutter, "You make a convincing argument."

"I find I grow even more convincing the more clothing I remove."

A groan of irritation gave way to laughter, then to the sigh of silk against skin, then breathy praise, curses, and whispered invocations of the Maker. After a few minutes, the pretense of quiet was almost forgotten. Until -

"Did you hear that?" Taliesen hissed.

There was an undignified, wet pop of a mouth leaving skin. "Hmm?"

"Footsteps. Someone’s on the stairs.”

"Don't be ridiculous. As I said, it's you and I til dawn, Taliesen."

With a resonant bang, Conde Estrada's bedroom door was thrown open. Bright light from the hall threw the room into garish relief. Clothing and leather armor lay in a rumpled heap upon a chaise of dark wood and damask. A surprising number of sheathed, bladed weapons were scattered across the floor. Two young men were entangled in a bed that dominated the room: a shirtless, brown-skinned elf with tattoos unfurling across his back, and an olive-skinned human clad in only a loose tunic. After a brief readjustment of their bodies and an urgent rustle of fabric: clad only in tunic and smallclothes.

Three people stood open-mouthed in the door frame. In front was a young woman, presumably the Conde’s companion, Doña Oristano, finely dressed for a formal dinner. Behind her were guards clad in the crimson livery of the Estrada family. One guard was slowly lowering his hand to the basket hilt of his rapier.

"Andraste's tits," Taliesen muttered, and he was on his feet. He reached down to scoop up a stiletto and toss it to Zevran, who caught it by its hilt as he rolled off the foot of the bed.

The woman took a step inside. She and the assassins regarded each other for a moment, bemusement permeating the opulent bedroom like a strong perfume.

Zevran spoke first, gesturing casually with his stiletto. “Forgive the intrusion. Perhaps this is all an embarrassing misunderstanding.”

As if in slow motion, the woman’s eyes swept over to the balcony. On the other side of the sheer curtain, the corpse of Conde Etore Estrada sprawled in a sizable pool of blood.

They tensed as she took a step sideways. With a delicate hand, she plucked a scabbard belt off the chaise. She drew one of their sabres with what looked like practiced ease, and replied in a clipped voice. “You’ll die here, Crows.”

Then in a flash, with her satin skirts billowing around her, she was upon Taliesen, who dodged out of the way of her strike. He ducked to grab a parrying dagger from the floor, and caught her next blow on its crossguard. Stuck in a half-crouch as she shoved him, he shuffled backwards until he banged his shin loudly on the bed frame. Grunting with effort, he twisted her sabre away from his body, hauling himself up to a standing position using a bedpost.

He spoke through gritted teeth as he willed the numb feeling to pass. “How did you expect that to work, Zev?” 

“Just hoping the confusion would buy us a moment.” Now with stilettos in both hands, Zevran darted across the room to meet the guards head-on. He scored an early blow against one, but soon both the guards had long rapiers drawn. While he dodged and parried their strikes, Zevran had no way to close the distance to make his knives any use.

Taliesen cast around for an offensive weapon. He was dismayed to see his sword sheathed and attached to his belt, which lay on a chair in the opposite corner of the room. He swatted away the woman’s next blow with his dagger and angled to cross the room, but Zevran and the guards fought directly in his path.

As Taliesen watched, Zevran pulled down a looking glass from a dressing table. The guards leapt back to avoid a collision with the mirror. Shards exploded across the floor. This was of no concern to Zevran, still clad in iron-soled boots, but his opponents wore shoes more suited to the parts of guarding that involved standing and looking formal. However Zevran had apparently forgotten that Taliesen was barefoot.

Taliesen deflected a heavy blow from the woman’s sabre, stumbling backwards a few steps toward the wall. He called out, "If we survive this, compañero, I'm going to kill you."

Zevran cast a glance over his shoulder and shrugged apologetically. Narrowing his eyes, he drew back his arm and threw his stiletto. It whirled end-over-end and lodged between the neck and shoulder of the woman menacing Taliesen. Her eyes went wide as she pitched forward. Taliesen couldn't predict the movement. Her sabre tore open his black tunic and left a shallow gash across his side. Taliesen’s shout was cut short as her weight pushed him against the wall. With a growl, he twisted his arm and plunged his dagger into her midsection. The woman’s eyes went glassy after a second thrust, and Taliesen shoved her to the ground.

In the moment Zevran had turned to throw the knife, one guard risked stepping forward. He shoved Zevran with the flat of his blade, knocking the smaller man back easily. Zevran’s remaining stiletto clattered the floor. He twisted his body to avoid glass as he fell, but the motion knocked the wind from his lungs. Despite this effort, the arm that broke his fall scraped against a few pieces. Zevran grit his teeth as blood blossomed across his bicep. 

He made no sound as the guard stepped over him. The guard angled his rapier for a decisive stab downward, but his body jerked suddenly and he crumpled. An arrow protruded halfway through his chest.

Taliesen’s eyes went to the balcony, where a figure in black stood poised with a shortbow. She loosed another arrow that found its mark in the throat of the second guard. At such a close distance, it tore through him. The guard staggered a few steps and fell.

All was suddenly silent as the woman slung her bow over her shoulder. Zevran rolled cautiously from his side onto his back and watched as she took a few steps into the room. She yanked her first arrow unceremoniously from the chest of the guard who’d knocked him down. Her mouth and nose were covered by a black cloth. Brown eyes met his with a crinkle to the corners that looked like laughter.

When she spoke, she sounded breezy, nonchalant. Again, a hint of something like mirth. "I had orders from Maestro Rondeau to check on you if you weren't back to the guildhall two hours past midnight." She held out a hand to Zevran, who blinked before letting her help him up.

"Who are you?" Taliesen’s voice was brusque. His chest still heaved from fighting as he peeled himself away from the wall. "Rondeau sent you? This was my contract."

"Looks like it was going well." She tugged away the scarf to reveal a lovely, heart-shaped face and dark brown skin. She was definitely moments away from bursting into laughter. "I'm Rinna. It's probably best if you, ah, dress quickly. Then we’ll head back to the guildhall."

They became suddenly aware of their surroundings - the luxurious bedroom, the fallen bodies on the floor, the discarded clothes, blood and glass. Rinna stood between Zevran and Taliesen, looking as relaxed as the men looked exhausted and weary.

Zevran extended his injured arm gingerly to assess the damage. "I would have sworn I knew every Crow our age in Arainai."

"I transferred two weeks ago," she said lightly. "I completed my apprenticeship and was made a compañera in House Valisti."

“Journeymen Crows don’t… transfer." Taliesen picked his way carefully across the floor, reaching down to retrieve his breeches with an admirably expressionless face.

She shrugged. After a moment, she said. "I might have expected more gratitude for saving you two from dying in your smallclothes."

Zevran seemed to come to some decision. He relaxed and bowed at the waist, more playactor than nobleman. "You have our thanks, Rinna. And a warm welcome to our humble house - "

Taliesen cut him off. "I'd say our gratitude depends entirely on the level of detail you chose to report back to Maestro Rondeau."

Rinna looked at them incredulously. Then she turned and took a few steps back toward the balcony. Over her shoulder she said, "I'd guess you woke half the palazzo when you shattered that mirror. I could let you take your chances with more guards, or we could climb down this trellis and get out of here." She smiled. "What'll it be?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why the hell did I write this? Basically, I wanted to read bittersweet poly romance and black comedy assassin adventures. Also, because I thought about Rinna too much and eventually developed so many specific headcanons that writing tens of thousands of words of fanfiction was my only recourse.
> 
> In terms of canon compliance, my only aim with this story was to align with Zevran's dialogue in Origins, and to give it the same "sex farce with an undercurrent of tragedy" vibe as the stories he tells the warden. It includes some elements from _World of Thedas,_ but it doesn't match up perfectly with that version of events.
> 
> October 2020 Update - The amazing primordialslime drew fan art of the opening chapter of this fic?? I'm??? Beyond honored. There are like six pieces of Taliesen fan art in existence, and now in 1/6 of them, he is not wearing pants. [Please go admire it.](https://primordialslime.tumblr.com/post/630729428641710080/what-an-awkward-first-date-scene-from)


	2. Make A Deal

Heavy doors thudded shut behind Rinna as she stepped inside Arainai's main hall. She was greeted by the sounds of an argument cut-off abruptly. Taliesen stood over a small, circular table with his hands splayed out on the wood. Zevran sat opposite him, crossed arms resting on the tabletop as he leaned in. Back in combat leathers, wounds bandaged with as much care as the limited time would allow, the pair held themselves stiffly from the night's exertions. Between the fight and the journey back, they’d both sobered up entirely.

Anywhere else on the continent, the headquarters of an assassins' guild would be tucked away in a dark alley or disguised behind some legitimate business. In Antiva City, however, the Crows owned property with the King and Council’s seals on the deeds. A respectable though middling House, Arainai's compound was nestled into a cluster of buildings that rose and fell along the slopes of the Hillside merchant’s district.

Arainai's main hall was shaped like a Chantry sanctuary. High windows glowed amber from the oil streetlamps outside, but they were too dim for much light to reach the floor below. At the far end of the hall was a raised wooden platform. On it, high-backed chairs loomed in an imposing row. On the wall above them sprawled a tapestry woven in masterwork detail. It depicted a lush garden scene in greens, reds, purples, and blacks. A closer inspection would reveal that every plant in the garden could be used in crafting poisons. A closer inspection still would reveal crows hidden among the leaves and blossoms: a crooked beak here, a few feathers there. 

Tables of various sizes sat scattered throughout the hall. All the room's unoccupied chairs were pushed against the walls in neat lines. On the rare occasions their guildmaster might call an assembly, the room could hold fifty people. Normally, the hall was used for smaller meetings and for apprentices' meals. It was also a useful location for chastising journeyman assassins in the middle of the night without parading them through the rest of the building.

As Rinna crossed the room, Taliesen pulled out a chair and sat beside Zevran. The taller man looked somewhere between angry and resolute. One of his advantages as an assassin was looking like many men in Antiva. Taliesen had olive skin, dark hair with a slight curl, and the broad shoulders and narrow waist of someone who might hoist sails, move cargo on the docks, or perhaps kill people for money. He was rough-looking but handsome. A neatly-trimmed beard framed his strong jaw. The bridge of his nose was crooked, as if it had long-ago been broken and reset.

One of Zevran's disadvantages as an assassin was looking like few men in Antiva. Although the city had no shortage of elves, brown skin with straight blonde hair was an uncommon sight. Any remaining hope of anonymity was dashed by the tattoo that curved down the left side of his face. He was muscular but wiry, and a full head shorter than his companion. His angular face could be called handsome or beautiful depending on the lighting, and Zevran happily accepted either as often as possible. For his part, Zevran feigned relaxation. He sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head, gazing up at the vaulted wood ceiling.

Rinna alone looked truly at ease. She moved a candelabra from an empty table to where Zevran and Taliesen sat. She produced an alchemical matchbook, struck a match, and began lighting candles with thoughtful care.

Taliesen let out a long exhale. "Alright, Rinna-recently-Arainai, let's talk."

She didn't look up from her work. "I just spoke with the compañera who let us in. She's gone to find Maestro Rondeau. We'll offer our report when he gets here."

Taliesen's voice had the edge of a threat. "You're not going to report what you saw tonight."

Zevran's eyes flicked down from the ceiling to her face. "What he means is - I’m sure we’d make for an entertaining execution. But that's just twenty minutes' fun." He shrugged. "An hour at most in the capably cruel hands of someone like Maestra Leonora. But we'd be more entertaining, and I'd imagine more useful, as your allies."

Rinna smiled. “So you want to make a deal.”

As each wick flared with Rinna's hand cupped around it, the light revealed the distinct calluses of an experienced archer. Her brown skin was darker and cooler than Zevran's. In the candlelight, her tight, voluminous curls framed her face like a halo. Her lips were full, her nose was broad, and the size of her eyes and points to her ears implied partial elven ancestry. Although it would be weeks before they admitted it to one another, in that moment both men were briefly dumbstruck.

With the last candles lit, she shook out the match and sat down opposite them. "Truth be told, I’m not sure what I stand to gain here. What kind of assassins get drunk and muck about on a mission?"

"The kind," Zevran announced, "that are good enough to get away with it."

Rinna looked incredulous. "You've got an expansive definition of 'getting away with it.'"

Zevran sat up straighter in his chair. He swept his arms out like a showman toward Taliesen and adopted a theatrical voice. "Patrons have requested Taliesen Arainai by name for his skill with a blade. Thanks to his obsession with bidding on high-profile marks, at one-and-twenty years he may soon be the youngest maestro our House has ever produced." He put a hand to his chest, “I myself am less interested in professional advancement - "

Rinna raised an eyebrow as Taliesen continued. His rough, smoky timbre made his showman's voice more comic than impressive. “Zevran Arainai’s work is as consistent as nightfall. He's completed a contract a month since the end of his apprenticeship, from bidding, to reconnaissance, to elimination. And there's no Crow better at crafting poisons."

"Or arranging seductions," Zevran said proudly. "Working together, Taliesen and I have a reputation for handling difficult contracts with ruthless efficiency, and, ah, shall we say creativity."

Rinna actually laughed. She had produced a silver argento coin and was absently walking it across her knuckles. "Would anyone else in House Arainai tell me that?"

"Maybe with less panache, but it's all true," Taliesen said, crossing his arms again.

Rinna looked from one to the other. She was still smiling, but the glint in her eye was something more serious. “Let’s speak plainly. If I tell our maestro the full story of what happened tonight, you two will probably die.”

Silence stretched out as the young men deflated before her. Eventually, Zevran softly replied, “That is true.”

She continued. “But I think it’d be a shame to squander the opportunity your predicament gives me.” With a flick of her wrist, the coin disappeared in her right hand, then reappeared in her left, where she continued rolling it across her fingers. “I want an eye for an eye. I’ll lie to a maestro on your behalf. In the future, you’ll lie to a maestro for me. Just once. But whatever I tell you to say, no questions asked.” She thought for a moment and added, “And if I ever have the misfortune to work with you on a mission, I expect you’ll take pains to prevent my untimely death.” She looked brightly between the pair of them. “That, I’ll happily swear to.”

Zevran opened his mouth to speak, but Taliesen cut him off. He'd angled toward Zevran, his voice low and clipped. "I'd just like to say that my plan to threaten her was better - ”

"You are aware that you have to live to get promoted to maestro, yes?" Zevran asked.

Taliesen growled, "You’re aware that when you promise people things, including your life and loyalty, you may actually have to make good on them?"

Zevran was silent for a moment. Then he uncurled the fingers of his left hand and spit into his palm. His eyes met Rinna’s as he extended his hand. “I know.”

Rinna searched his face. With a turn of her wrist, the coin she held disappeared. She spit into her own left hand, but waited to shake. “I’d like all three of us to be in agreement.”

Taliesen shifted in his seat, glancing from one to the other with the look of someone searching for other options. Finally, he rolled his shoulders back and sighed. “Maybe we all stand to gain something out of this, after all.” His expectoration was surprisingly delicate.

Rinna and Zevran shook first, then she spat again and repeated the left-handed gesture with Taliesen. Then she watched the two of them seal their agreement together.

With clasped hands, Zevran leaned to speak into Taliesen's ear. "More flies with honey," he murmured.

Taliesen gave him a look somewhere between, ‘we'll see’ and ‘fuck off.’

The three of them sat back against their seats with renewed energy. Rinna was the first to break the silence. “Zevran and Taliesen - my new compañeros. We’d all like to be home before first light. What shall we tell Maestro Rondeau?”

Taliesen laced his fingers to stretch his arms above his head. “He did wager against our success, but Rondeau likes Zev and I. He’ll have no reason to disbelieve you.” He dropped his arms. “Let’s just stay close to the truth.” 

Rinna considered this. “When I climbed the trellis, the Conde’s body was quite bloody, but still pliable. So maybe an hour after you killed him. Based on your very audible conversation, I arrived shortly before you finished drinking and started snogging.”

“Well!” Zevran said brightly. “Two excellent points _not_ to include in our report. But had I known we had an enthusiastic audience, I might have given a better performance.”

Taliesen sputtered. “You just waited on the balcony while we - ”

“It was funny.” Rinna’s eyes sparkled. “You know, there are prohibitions against Crows sleeping together.”

Zevran made a dismissive gesture. “So many rules! How is one meant to remember them all?”

Besides his flush, Taliesen’s face was impassive. “Why didn’t you help us sooner against the guards and that woman - ”

The hall door opened and Taliesen’s protests ceased abruptly. Rinna's back was to the entrance, but she saw Zevran's eyebrows dart upwards. Taliesen stiffened in his seat.

The voice from the door was female: mirthful, with an undercurrent of contemptuous ice. "Sorry I'm late. I took some time to pray to the Maker that you shitwits wouldn't waste too much of my night."

Zevran and Taliesen both fumbled to stand as a woman strode into the guild hall. Despite the late hour, she was fully dressed in a flared coat, laced shirt, breeches, and boots. Her grey-streaked locs were wrapped in a knot atop her head. At her side, she carried a cane of gnarled, grey driftwood. A imperious wave of that cane lit every candelabra in the room, which made the three assassins squint wearily in the brightness. She made no pretense of using it to walk. Every Arainai Crow knew it as the disguised staff of an apostate mage.

"Maestra Leonora," Taliesen began stiffly, “We weren’t expecting - ”


	3. Margin of Error

As she strode toward their table, Maestra Leonora Arainai gestured again with the end of her driftwood cane, this time toward a high-backed chair on the platform at the far end of the room. The chair shuddered and began to skid to the edge. It tipped onto the stone floor and continued to scrape across the ground until it came to an upright stop across from Zevran and Taliesen. Leonora reached them a moment later and sat down, placing her cane across her knees. She gripped it lightly in her brown hands.

“I crossed paths with Rondeau moments ago.” Leonora’s voice was resonant, with the precise diction of upper class. She was smiling but her tone was clipped. “When he informed me that Taliesen and Zevran were back late from a mission, I decided I’d relieve him of his duties and hear your report for myself. Sit down.”

Rinna followed suit as they pulled out their chairs. She reached instinctively into a pocket to find something to fiddle with, but stopped herself. With her hands in her lap, she flexed her fingers then forced herself to relax.

Mages were rare among the Crows. The Antivan Circle occasionally allied itself with the guild, but only apostates could actually become assassins themselves. Those who survived, who resisted demons and evaded the Templars, were powerful indeed. Rinna had apparently agreed to lie to one.

The events of this evening had become the bizarre climax to the strangest week of Rinna's life. This was an inauspicious beginning to her career in Arainai, and she knew it could easily become an ignoble end.

Although their faces didn’t betray them - each wore that classic, Crow expression of detached observation - both men carried tension through their backs and shoulders. They were deeply on-edge. This did not inspire confidence. Rinna resolved, dispassionately, to see which way the wind was blowing before she committed to her story.

Zevran returned the mage’s smile, which plainly did not reach his eyes. "Maestra Leonora! I had heard you were in Treviso - ”

“My business concluded sooner than expected. A happy coincidence.”

“But what are you doing here?” Taliesen wasn’t as skilled at hiding his displeasure. Or perhaps he simply didn’t bother.

Leonora sounded nonplussed. "Probably I'm about to listen to you tell a tedious series of lies, and then hurt you until you decide to tell me the truth."

"We could tell an interesting series of lies," Zevran offered. Below the table, Taliesen attempted to stomp on his foot, but missed when Zevran chose that moment to cross his legs.

Leonora narrowed her eyes and leaned forward in her chair, placing one elbow on the table. "Zevran, you've exhausted your one joke allotment for the evening. And it wasn't even very funny." The mage seemed to notice Rinna for the first time. She fell silent and furrowed her brow, staring. She searched Rinna’s face with such open curiosity that eventually the younger woman cleared her throat.

"We haven't been introduced yet, Maestra. I'm - "

Leonora spoke quietly, as if musing something over. "I know who you are, Rinna. I made the decision to purchase you." She drummed her fingers against the table. "And here you are. It was monstrous of Rondeau to make your first assignment chasing after these two. Did he tell you anything of their reputation?"

At the mention of her purchase, Rinna had to school her own expression. She had apparently agreed to lie to the person who could explain her sudden transfer. Mentally, she subtracted a point from her willingness to help her fellow compañeros. Still, she kept her voice light. "He didn’t say much."

Leonora grinned and sat back in her chair. "A recent record, then. Three incidents in the past year alone. First, Zevran. Following the seduction and assassination a doña of Treviso, he was chased naked through the noble's quarter by her furious lover. We had to send Taliesen to deal with the aftermath."

Taliesen looked unable to restrain himself. "We completed the contract, though," he said, sounding somewhere between annoyed and proud. "Zevran did kill her. And eventually, there were no witnesses."

Leonora continued, "During their next job in Rialto, Taliesen murdered an undercover Crow of House Lanos. Our Guildmaestro reminded me just yesterday that we’re still sending Lanos apology money."

Taliesen flushed, but Zevran made a dismissive sound. "In his defense, she was very easy to kill. She flashed concealed weapons like an amateur! How was Taliesen to know she was a Crow?"

Rinna subtracted another point. The elf apparently had a death wish. Unless his repeated attempts at humor were genuine? In which case, she almost admired his audacity.

"And of course," Leonora persisted with cold delight, "the elaborate mummer's farce in which the two of them pretended to be victims of plague to frighten away tavern patrons. Caused a stampede and substantial fire."

"We weren't recognized, the Crows weren't implicated, and that tavern owner _did_ die," Taliesen said. His face was back to neutral, but Zevran was trying and failing not to look genuinely pleased with himself.

“Enough.” Leonora lay her cane before her on the table. She curled one hand around it.

The room’s many candles wavered and dimmed, beginning with the candelabra on their table and radiating outward. The air went cool, then cold. Frost began to creep from the maestra’s fist in a v-shape, across the table toward the two assassins. As the frost passed perpendicular to her, Rinna felt the hair on her arms stand on end. As the ice drew closer to them, she saw Zevran begin to shiver and Taliesen grab the table to stop himself from doing the same.

"Enough bullshit." Leonora’s voice took on a mocking edge. "Yes, you’ve completed your contracts by the grace of the Maker. But I’m getting on in years and I’m not sure I can handle the stress.” To illustrate this, she used her free hand to pat her greying locs.

Despite his trembling, Zevran sounded conversational. “Maestra Leonora, although the exercise of your abilities is always fascinating, there’s no need for - ”

“On the contrary.” Before any of them could react, Leonora’s hand shot out to cover Taliesen’s. When she removed it, she left a spidery pattern of ice crystals in its place. Taliesen tried to jerk his arm backward, but the ice crawled down to freeze his hand to the table. He let out a cry of shock and looked at her with undisguised loathing. She continued, “I believe the threat of frostbite imposes a very practical time limit to any fucking around on your part.”

When the staff’s advancing line of frost reached their edge of the table, the men’s hair began rustling in a gust that Rinna could hear but not feel. From the way their skin was reddening, it must have been frigid. Leonora looked to her with an imperious expression. “So let’s hear the report. Why were these two so late returning tonight?”

Rinna had made her decision. Zevran and Taliesen sounded delightful. Under better circumstances, she’d love to trade stories over drinks. Under middling circumstances, she might have the interesting misfortune of actually working with them. Sadly, the circumstances were dire. As Crows went, they were reckless to the point of farce. And Leonora was terrifying. Rinna was going to tell her everything.

As she opened her mouth to speak, Zevran caught her eye. The localized gale tugged at his hair and frost clung to his eyelashes. She watched as he let his mask drop. In the narrowing of his eyes and quirk of his brow, she saw a hard resignation and world-weariness beyond his years. He was fully prepared for her betrayal. He would do what he had to in order to survive. He expected the same from her. There was no malice at all. If anything, a kind of nonchalant ease. After his insouciant banter, his poise actually startled her.

Rinna shook herself. She should be loathe to to ally herself with a maestro over any compañero. The past week had left her feeling vulnerable, defensive, scrabbling for certainty. Perhaps Leonora would tell her why she was transferred. Perhaps she wouldn’t.

Looking into Zevran’s open face, she thought about how often she brought death. How rarely she had the opportunity to grant a reprieve. Then a perverse feeling overcame her: he looked so certain. She wanted to surprise him just to see what he’d do. That was a terrible motivation for subjecting oneself to danger.

The bastards had no idea how lucky they were.

The moment passed in the blink of an eye. Rinna took a steadying breath and on her exhale, fully believed the words she next spoke.

"Maestra Leonora," she began. "I arrived at the Palazzo Estrada just past midnight." She met the mage’s smirking face with easy eye contact. “I passed through some gardens and heard fighting from a balcony window. There was a workman’s ladder against a nearby wall, which I guessed my compañeros had left for their exit. I climbed it. Once on the balcony, I saw Conde Etore Estrada still bleeding from his slit throat.”

Rinna swept out a hand in a small shrug, as if she were unconcerned with the fate of the two men freezing from dark magic just beside her. “I expect that Zevran and Taliesen were late because the Conde took some time to retire back to his chambers. Inside the bedroom, they were fighting against two Estrada guards and a dark-haired woman in a silver dress. They managed to kill her. I shot the guards from the balcony. We made our introductions, then a hasty exit.”

Rinna knew she couldn’t afford a glance at Zevran, but wished fervently to see his reaction. Instead, she watched Leonora’s face carefully. The maestra’s expression had gone from attentive to impassive. When Leonora responded, she was quiet. “Why didn’t they wait to kill the Conde until he was alone?”

Taliesen replied before she had a chance. “He _was _alone.”__ His forearm was tense with the effort of flexing his ice-encased hand - to free it, or perhaps simply to keep blood flowing. “The other three were on a lower floor. He knocked over a mirror when we attacked him. The sound drew the others. We had to go through them to escape.”

“Twice careless, then,” Leonora said softly. “Your first mistake is perhaps within some margin of error, but your second is unfortunately unforgivable.”

Taliesen spoke through gritted teeth. “Second mistake?”

Leonora’s voice was hard to read. “This dark-haired woman dining with Conde Estrada. Could you perhaps hazard a guess as to who that was?”

“We don’t need to guess,” Taliesen said urgently. “That was Doña Ines Oristano. She and the Conde were having an affair, meeting at his family's palazzo. It’s how we knew he’d be there.” Out of the corner of her eye, Rinna saw that below the glittering ice, his hand had gone grotesquely white and waxy. She had never seen frostbite before, but she’d seen necrotic skin plenty of times and could guess what was happening.

Suddenly, Leonora was furious. She thrust a second hand down onto her cane. The chill wind picked up, sending Taliesen and Zevran’s clothes fluttering. A second wave of cold pulsed outward, covering the table’s lace-like frost in crystalline spikes of ice. “Doña Ines Oristano. Daughter of Salma Oristano, a merchant princess who represents the interests of vineyards and orchards on the Council. The same Salma Oristano who paid us handsomely two months ago for her family’s _assured protection from the Crows._ ”

Zevran made to stand, but an icicle broke off from the table and shot over to pin the lose fabric of his shirtsleeve to his chair. To Rinna’s horror, she saw his cheeks and the tips of his ears likewise turning waxy in the cold.

“What, speechless at last?” Leonora roared above the wind.

Zevran squinted. The wind carried his words away, making him sound quieter and more distant. “The fault is mine. Taliesen trusted me for planning and information. My work was incomplete.”

“Shut up, Zev.” Taliesen’s gaze was fixed on his frozen hand, but his voice was steady. “I should have checked the details. It was my mission. My responsibility. Don’t blame him for - ”

As Zevran began to protest again, Leonora stood up and they both fell silent. “I’m going to make this very clear,” she began, “since subtlety is apparently beyond your purview. Doña Ines Oristano was a person who needed an accident avoided _at all costs._ I will first have to offer her mother thousands of andris, reimbursing her and then some. But the very next thing she’ll ask of me, and the only possible comfort I can imagine giving her, is killing the two blundering, witless, incompetent young assassins who murdered her daughter. And to guarantee that their deaths are _very_ painful.”

Ice poured outward from her cane, growing larger and larger crystals that marched toward the table’s edge. On Taliesen, they mingled with frost to form bands up his arm, while toward Zevran, the ice arched like a bridge in the air until it met his chest and began to slowly crystallize.

Rinna felt adrenaline course through her, but forced herself to stay still. Despite her attempt to be noble, the situation had slipped entirely out of her control. She hadn’t known about the Oristano family’s agreement with the guild. Even if she knew how to combat ice magic, she wouldn’t raise a weapon to defend them from a maestra. Apprentices and even full compañeros were killed all the time, often for much less. She’d at least give them the decency of watching them die. And she’d never seen anybody die from cold before, so that much was educational.

Leonora took her hands off the cane and regarded the pair for a moment: their faces pale and blotchy, shaking in the cold, half covered in ice. A mixture of irritation and weariness entered her voice as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Even more than I hate to see talent wasted, I hate to see my investments squandered.”

The climbing ice had reached Zevran’s collarbone and stopped its advance. However, the wind that gusted around them was making his ears blister. His voice was muffled, but still he managed to sound flippant. "Maestra, you used to tell me that I was the best three andris you'd ever spent."

"Yes,” she said wryly, “You were a bargain of a boy, Zevran. I've paid more for a good bottle of wine. But you've cost Arainai far more than that. Feeding you, training you, healing your injuries. And I'd prefer the hangover to the continual headache of dealing with you for… Maker, I believe it’s been thirteen years."

She turned her attention to the other man. "But free was even better than a bargain. Taliesen: our shipwrecked orphan with anything to prove. Truthfully, we thought you'd make more of yourself. But after killing quite a lot of people, it looks like you're still going to die… nobody.”

Trapped in place, with his hand darkening from white to greyish-purple, this last remark seemed to push Taliesen over the edge. His voice came out in a choked growl. “How many thousands of andris will Arainai owe Doña Oristano?”

“Two thousand.”

“Let us live. In a year, we’ll pay you back three.”

Leonora threw her head back and laughed. The sound echoed around the high-ceilinged hall. It rattled off the windows like the whistling wind. When she recovered herself, her voice was flat. “You couldn’t possibly.”

Taliesen locked eyes with her. Frost clung to his beard and crawled up his face in tight spirals. “We will. If investment’s your priority, don’t throw away money.”

“Even if you could earn that much gold, our reputation is more precious. Antiva City believes that the Crows never fail.”

Taliesen spoke with conviction. “Commoners believe that. And new money, too. But every wealthy family that goes back more than four generations knows we’re only a guild. They are as invested in our prestige as we are.”

Zevran looked ashy; numbness limited his facial movement. He managed, “We can bid next to nothing on contracts. Keep only enough to cover expenses. Three thousand in a year.”

Seconds stretched on as Leonora looked from one to the other, searching their faces. Then she sat down. To their immense shock, the wind stilled. Rinna, aware she had begun holding her breath, forced herself to exhale.

The new quiet in the hall felt spacious with possibility, and the maestra’s voice filled it. “And what should I tell Doña Oristano?”

“That we’ll do any job she wants. For free.” Relief flooded Taliesen, intermixing with his adrenaline and anger. “She wants us to murder a few of her fellow Merchant Princes? Fine. To kill the Emperor of Orlais? We’ll do our damnedest.”

Zevran seemed to sense that real negotiations were taking place. Despite his numbness or perhaps because of it, Rinna watched him relax. “Any job,” he said, “Assassination, certainly, but we’d also weed her garden, wash dishes - ”

“Zevran Arainai,” Leonora’s eyes flashed, “While the filter between your brain and your mouth is infamously tenuous, _on your life,_ prove to me that you can act contrite.”

Zevran sighed. “I am sorry, Maestra.”

“You will be when you can feel your face again. I’d guess you’re going to lose a chunk of an ear from ice blisters.”

If possible, Zevran grew paler.

Leonora reached out to pick up her cane. As soon as it was off the table, the candles brightened as if their wicks had lengthened. The ice covering the table and the assassins’ bodies began to shimmer away. Taliesen and Zevran were too numb to tremble. Taliesen’s left hand was grey-purple and rested unmoving on the table. A portion of Zevran’s right ear was purple-black.

Taliesen was the first to regain any sensation, and raised his right hand to massage feeling into his face. The pair winced and moved gingerly to take inventory. Rinna kept her clenched fists in her lap.

Leonora allowed them a few moments to recover themselves. She took her cane in both of her hands and ran a thumb over the smooth driftwood, looking thoughtful. “I will go to Doña Oristano in the morning and present her with your proposition. Of course, she has every right to refuse your offer and ask for your lives. But should she accept…” Her voice was level. “This will be your last chance. No lose ends. No mistakes. Three thousand andris in a year, and the best assassination you’ve ever completed in your short and gallingly eventful careers.”

They would not spit or shake hands. This was no agreement; it was a command. The two men nodded once, together.

Leonora looked satisfied by this, but continued speaking. “I’d say a piece of that ear is enough to wound your substantial vanity, Zevran. But as you said, Taliesen, this was your mission. I cannot tell a Merchant Prince that you’ve faced no consequences for your failure.”

Taliesen had begun to carefully flex the fingers of his frozen hand, gritting his teeth against the pain. As she spoke, Leonora reached out with her cane and touched its end to his knuckles. She tapped once, softly. What followed was the unmistakable crack of breaking bone. Taliesen screamed.

Blithely, Leonora stood and stretched. Zevran reached out to grasp Taliesen’s shoulder; the taller man fought down his shock and nausea, biting his cheek hard enough to draw blood. The mage spoke conversationally. “If you get to a healer tonight, you won’t lose any fingers to the blisters. And they can set your hand so it mends properly.” She yawned. “Maker, it’s late. Or perhaps it’s early.”

She turned and began to walk back toward the hall’s double doors. This time, tired from magical exertion, she leaned into her cane to help her pick her way across the floor.

Zevran was on his feet, supporting Taliesen as he swayed. Rinna stood too, waves of terror and relief coursing through her as she watched the maestra pull open the heavy door.

Before she left, Leonora turned and called out her name. “Rinna - welcome to House Arainai. Let’s meet tomorrow to discuss your second assignment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to _The Lies of Locke Lamora_ for Zev and Taliesen's plague victim stunt. _TLoLL_ was honestly a huge influence on this fic, so I wanted to include a few overt references. If you happen to have read it, you'll spot 'em.


	4. On Official Business

A muffled shop’s bell rang out Zevran’s departure as he exited the apothecary. He stepped out onto the covered walkway and shrugged his pack over his shoulder. He cast a quick look around the square: from the shadows of the walkway that circumscribed it, to its center where an enormous, three-tiered fountain shimmered in the sun. Beside the fountain, two elderly women were perched over a table, engrossed in a game of chess. He decided they were unlikely to be undercover Crows. 

The ground level was otherwise unoccupied. Buildings of yellow stone rose up on three sides of the square. Many had windows thrown open to the breeze and sunshine, but Zevran estimated that no waiting bowman could spot him if he kept to the walkway. Above him, beautifully carved arches of stone curved down to meet the shop fronts on his left; on his right, they tapered to fluted columns that separated the arcade walkway from the square.

A day and a night had passed since what Zevran had deemed, “the partially successful assassination of Conde Estrada.” Neither he nor Taliesen had heard news from House Arainai. Consequently, they prepared for the worst, Taliesen bitterly and Zevran blithely. But that morning, it was clear that his companion’s hand needed fresh bandages and salve, so Zevran decided to cautiously undertake an errand. His years studying poisons had left him picky about apothecaries, so he had trekked far to peruse the upscale shops of the Mercari district. Although they’d have a debt of three thousand andris to settle if they lived, Zevran figured they had little chance of earning anything if Taliesen’s hand healed badly.

While they’d grown up together as apprentices to House Arainai, at age eighteen, Taliesen had been sent away to Rialto for two years to train with a master duelist. During that time, Zevran had studied under alchemists and healers in Antiva City. When they were brought back to the House to be made compañeros, journeymen assassins, their rekindled friendship had the same camaraderie and competitiveness, but had taken an unexpected turn for the flirtatious. Thanks in-part to a wager over cards, they’d recently begun sleeping together. Their arrangement was enthusiastic but unsentimental. While they maintained separate rooms, they lived in the same building. Their apartments were Zevran's current destination. 

With a steadying breath, he set off down the walkway, heading for a gap between buildings at the corner of the square. He was dressed as a wealthy commoner might for fencing practice: a well-tailored, cream-colored tunic, over which he wore a leather jerkin, bracers, and gloves. Thrown over this was a light, embroidered half-cape, worn jauntily over one shoulder. In the oppressive humidity of Antivan summer, Zevran started sweating immediately. But this ensemble, he felt, was the most protection he could get away with at midday in a wealthy neighborhood without looking conspicuous. The only detail out of place was the gauze wrapped and pinned neatly around his right ear. His boots concealed his only weapons: two stiletto daggers.

Passing through the alley, he emerged onto another walkway and into the modest noon traffic of the Vea Mercari. This path ran parallel to a wide, cobbled avenue, which rose and fell over hills between tightly packed blocks of buildings. Arcade walkways ran most of its length, while galleries of balconies stretched across the buildings’ upper floors. Many of these were festooned with silk curtains, hanging plants, or sun-catchers of colored glass. One such balcony was covered in roosting gulls. As Zevran watched, a richly-dressed man emerged onto the balcony and began to shout and gesture at the birds. Only when he drew within arms’ reach did the gulls alight indignantly into the clear sky. 

Smiling, Zevran began to make his way down the walkway. At the ground level, colorful signs hung over doorways advertising a finer class of clothing shops, restaurants, barber-surgeons, and counting houses. Most had no glass in their windows, but instead had painted wooden shutters that were pulled closed. Midday was generally reserved for food and rest. Businesses would reopen in the afternoon when the heat and humidity abated. 

Zevran had timed his trip to minimize the number of people on the street. Despite this, he still walked among a smattering of laborers, craftspeople, and merchants. Many people bore signs of their trade: ink-stained fingers on a printer’s apprentice, or wood shavings on the hem of a carpenter’s skirts. Each of these details brought Zevran some relief, because they were trifles that a disguised Crow wouldn’t bother to fabricate. He kept the wall close on his left side and stayed alert those passing on his right.

While the covered walkway continued, Zevran soon reached the end of the row of buildings on his left side. The block opened to reveal the blue-grey Selena river, winding parallel to the Vea Mercari. Barges and rafts flowed in both directions: drifting lazily toward the harbor carried by the current, or rowed upriver toward the wealthier parts of the city. A series of canal locks allowed the boats to travel uphill on the Selena’s tributaries, although slowly. Blocks of carved stone formed giant steps leading down from the street to the riverbank. A flock of gulls cried overhead, while others perched along the docks that jutted out into the river.

Here, under the shade of the arcade, more modest vendors had set up improvised displays of their wares. These were people who couldn’t afford the exorbitant shop rent of Mercari’s row houses. They sold simpler things: sacks of grain, braids of onions, tools, or trinkets. They had no signage, but the services they offered were easy to deduce: knife sharpening, pot mending, minor divination. A few times a year, the Council dispatched the City Watch to harass markets like these under some vague pretense of collecting taxes. After a few days underground, they always came creeping back to occupy the same streets. 

These vendors didn’t have the luxury of a noon rest, and consequently business was livelier here. As he passed by, Zevran heard snippets of conversations, quarrels, and negations in Antivan, Tevene, and in the trade tongue shared among kingdoms. The scents of sweat, leather, perfume, and a dozen fresh and spoiled foods met his nose. Below it all was the salty, airy scent of the sea.

It was harder to track the various men and women who meandered along this stretch of the Vea Mercari. Here was a sailor, tan-skinned and well-muscled. Zevran’s eyes followed her before he caught himself and returned his attention to the path ahead. There was a clothier, hurrying past with bolts of fabric in his arms. A ways ahead was a restaurant cook, haggling with a grocer over a basket of artichokes. And just past those two was - a brown-skinned elven woman dressed in a gray tunic and breeches, wearing a wide-brimmed hat with three crow’s feathers tucked in the band.

Zevran froze. Apparently he’d been wrong to worry that Arainai would be subtle.

Rinna stood perhaps a hundred feet away. She was conversing with with an apiarist, who looked nervous even at a distance. Arranged on the cart between them were blocks of beeswax, bundles of candles, and pieces of honeycomb wrapped in wax paper.

In Antiva City, no one wore crow feathers as a casual fashion statement. Their association with the assassin’s guild was too indecorous. However, guild members donned them from time to time when they wanted to identify themselves. Zevran occasionally took advantage of this custom and would wear them in a vest or coat pocket as a means for attracting the interest of strangers in bars. In broad daylight in a wealthy neighborhood, the only reason a Crow would so ostentatiously announce her presence was because she was on official business, had been paid to kill someone, and wanted very much not to be harangued.

Evidentially, the apiarist was aware of this tradition. His eyes darted anxiously between Rinna’s hat and her face. Others passing by gave them a conspicuously wide berth. Rinna ignored this. She looked cheerful as she picked up a packet of tapered candles, and appeared to be asking something about them. 

While she was not dressed for a fight and carried no obvious weapons, Zevran knew there was no chance she was unarmed. Wearing that hat, she could attack him in broad daylight and no one would interfere on his behalf. With some irritation, Zevran wished that Arainai had sent anyone else. Despite his profession, he found himself with reservations against killing someone who’d so recently saved his life, and with whom he had earnestly vowed allyship. 

Nothing for it, though.

Torn between the urge to run and the desire keep her in his line of sight, Zevran turned to the nearest stall and knelt down. An elderly elven man sat on the ground before him, framed by pyramids of oranges, lemons, and other citrus fruits arranged on large metal platters. Etched below the wrinkles of his face were the faded geometries of Dalish tattoos.

Even in his current circumstance, Zevran always felt a vague fondness for elves. “How much for two oranges?” he asked quickly.

The man smiled, his tattoos curling upward. “Four coppers.”

Zevran reached into the coin purse at his waist and deliberately fumbled. He spilled a handful copper coins onto the mat, which shone in the sunlight. He made a show of collecting them and apologizing, while below his cape, he used his left hand to draw a stiletto from his boot. He turned the stiletto to cup the pommel in his palm, keeping the blade against his gloved forearm. 

The man had missed Zevran’s legerdemain; his attention was entirely occupied by the spill of coins. “Did I say two each?” he asked amiably. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve just remembered that my supplier’s had, ah, a shortage lately. These should be four each.”

Zevran frowned slightly, his fellow-feeling diminished. He left eight copper pieces on the mat without any attempt to barter, scooped two oranges into his pack, and straightened up again. He looked over to the apiarist’s cart. Rinna had gone.

“Fancy seeing you here, Zevran.”

It took all of his self-control not to start or swear. His left arm went rigid with the effort of gripping the dagger. He willed himself to relax. When he turned around, he was face-to-face with Rinna, who had a faint smile crinkling her wide, brown eyes.

He did a quick assessment of just how much shit he was in for. Like him, she wore tall boots over her charcoal breeches, which doubtless contained similar blades. Her tunic was a lighter grey, and tucked into the high, belted waist of her trousers. Its voluminous sleeves could conceal knives, caltrops, alchemical powders, or other tools of their trade. For the moment, however, she wasn’t holding any weapons. Her hands were on her hips as she gazed at him. They were exactly the same height. She was exceedingly lovely. Thus ended his appraisal.

Zevran actually managed to sound jovial. “If it isn’t the radiant Rinna! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“An amusing coincidence. I was instructed to find you and Taliesen at your apartments.” She tipped her hat to him and grinned, which made Zevran’s stomach clench with anxiety. Still seated nearby them, the fruit seller noticed her crow feathers and his mouth dropped open. He began unsubtly stuffing oranges into a sack in an attempt to hastily relocate his business. Zevran peered openly at her hand to see if she’d used the motion to remove something from her hat or sleeve. Rinna continued, “Maestra Leonora gave me directions, but it will be even easier to find with you leading the way.”

Her hands were still empty. What was she playing at? Perhaps she was just a distraction and there was someone else nearby with a crossbow trained on him. Upon second thought, that was very likely. Zevran let out a steadying breath. “Interested in visiting your new friends?” he asked lightly.

Her eyes met his. “On business.”

The fruit seller had moved on to lemons and was packing up with furious intensity. Zevran made a decision. If there was going to be a crossbow bolt in his future, he didn’t want to bleed on this man’s fruit stall. And he couldn’t simply attack Rinna if there were other Crows working with her in the market. He had to lead them somewhere more isolated. That way, he could determine how many total assassins confronted him, and then somehow kill or maim his way into an escape. Then he’d go collect Taliesen… if there weren’t other Crows who got to their apartments first. He banished that thought.

“Well,” Zevran said. “I’d never refuse a beautiful woman asking to come home with me. Even if it’s just on business.”

His flirtation was more automatic than calculated, but Rinna didn’t acknowledge it. “You can lead the way,” she replied. “I’ll be right behind you.”

They regarded each other for another tense moment. Then Zevran turned his back to her and began walking down the covered walkway. She stepped just beside him to his right, keeping between him and the main road. The fruit seller watched them cautiously until they passed out of sight. He set down the lemon he clutched and breathed a sigh of relief.

After another ten minutes of walking, the Vea Mercari came to an end at an intersection of several streets of packed dirt. Concealed dagger still in hand, sweat stinging his eyes, Zevran gazed across the intersection for anyone out of place. He turned down the narrowest street, barely more than an alley, which ran between two competing restaurants. Past them, the path narrowed further into a stone footbridge that arched high, up and over a canal flowing into the Selena River. 

This bottleneck was to his advantage. Anyone following them would have no option besides crossing the bridge. The bridge itself was barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Despite his vigilance, Zevran hadn’t yet spotted anyone following them. As he stepped up onto the bridge, a glance behind him revealed only Rinna, whose face was impassive. She appeared to be alone.

At the zenith of the bridge, Zevran stopped suddenly and faced her. Beneath his cloak, he adjusted the dagger so that he held it in a thrusting grip. His hand was steady, matching his voice. “While that hat truly suits you, shall I continue to pretend that I don’t know why you’re here?”

Rinna actually smiled at him. “Since you’re clutching that stiletto, I think it’s pretty clear that you _don’t_ know why I’m here.”

Zevran stared at her, brow furrowing.

“Our maestra met with Doña Oristano yesterday. And apparently, Oristano decided to take you up on your offer. She has a job for you.”

Zevran gaped. “And why didn’t you lead with that?”

She spread her arms in a magnanimous shrug. “Much more entertaining this way.”

“But the official business feathers - ” 

“Being a Crow has so many rules,” she smiled, “How is one meant to remember them all?”

Zevran started to laugh incredulously, nearly trembling with relief. He tossed his cape back and slid his stiletto into its boot sheath. “I might have hurt you!”

Rinna snorted. “I doubt it.” With a turn of her wrist, a milky blue sphere the size of an argento fell from her sleeve into her palm. Zevran recognized it as a pellet of sleep soot. It could be crushed between two fingers into a sedative powder. She said, “Had this in case you tried something stupid.”

“So… your business really is to tell Taliesen and I that we’re working for Oristano.”

“Yep!”

Zevran and Rinna walked side-by-side down the bridge and into the adjacent Fabrica district. They’d passed from hillside neighborhoods to dockside now, but this close to the border, Fabrica wasn’t too shabby. Here, carved stone gave way to buildings of timber and plaster. Laborers and traders passed them by, many leading goat-drawn carts or pack horses. They made a few turns down side streets as Zevran fumed in quiet consternation. 

Finally, he could resist no longer. "You know, twice since our oath, you've had me convinced that you were going to kill me," he said reproachfully.

"And twice I haven't." Rinna flashed a smile that could bring lesser men to their knees. "Maybe that's proof you can trust me."

He answered with a dark chuckle. "Ah, Rinna, so refreshing to find another Crow with a sense of humor."

"So much for our oath!" She poked his shoulder, still smiling. " _You_ were entirely ready to maim me at a minimum.”

Zevran was silent for a moment as they continued walking. When he spoke, he sounded dubious, “Would you really have disobeyed an order to kill me?”

“No.” She said this casually, but then appeared to think it over. “But if that was my order, I’d like to tell you plainly. And we could perhaps have a fair duel and I’d kill you that way.”

“That’s… very noble of you.”

“Nobility is one of my consistent character flaws.” Rinna said, raising an eyebrow. “Alongside a predisposition for mischief. There’s some satisfaction to knowing more than some other bastard. Then using it to get the better of them.”

“That’s me, then? Some other bastard?” He played theatrically indignant. Perhaps it was giddiness born from his reprieve, but he found himself laughing with her as they reached their destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the deal with "compañero" when these characters don't otherwise speak Spanish? Well, what I really wanted was a word to differentiate apprentices from full-fledged Crows. So they use compañero like a title, much like maestro, doña, or conde. Apologies to any Spanish speakers who think this sounds silly. I just enjoyed the idea of all these assassins calling each other "comrade."
> 
> Apparently, world building is important when writing a murder sex comedy ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. A Team of Three

Rinna discovered upon their arrival that her compañeros lived in a well-to-do inn converted into apartments. A forest of chimneys sprouted from the tiled roof. Climbing ivy covered most of the building’s back facade. Every window shutter was thrown open except one at the far corner of the second story. A grand trellis of clematis stretched up from the ground to just below the closed window. Zevran pointed up to it. “There he waits. But let’s climb the stairs and not the trellis, hmm?” 

They rounded the building and entered through the front door into the apartments’ common room. Rinna removed her hat as she stepped inside, holding it against her body in a way that obscured the crow feathers. She’d gone back and forth about those. She knew her would-be squadmates would be on edge after the previous days’ events. There was just something about them that made her want to prod. And she agreed with Zevran on one thing: it was refreshing to find another Crow with a sense of humor. 

Just inside the common room, four people were finishing lunch, chatting animatedly across a long table. Zevran gave his neighbors a cordial smile, and Rinna noticed that one of the men stared after them - actually, after Zevran, as he passed.

Even off the job, most Crows dressed to avoid attracting attention. The elf did a terrible job of it. His cream-colored tunic suited his tawny skin. The leathers he wore were well-maintained, polished to a soft shine. The braids that kept his hair from his face made his cheekbones more prominent. Rinna suddenly wondered if this was an intentional strategy: catch people’s eye but control expectations to appear nonthreatening. 

Then again, maybe he simply enjoyed being admired.

They ascended a winding staircase at the back of the room. When they reached the end of the second-story hallway, Zevran knocked three times on the door with the back of his hand. “It’s me. No need to waste a crossbow bolt.”

Taliesen’s voice came through slightly muffled. “Blood and ashes, I wondered when you’d get back. Thought something had gone wrong.” 

Zevran pulled open the door. Taliesen sat directly before them, behind a small table. Atop it rested a formidable crossbow, a cup of watered wine, and cards laid out in a game of patience. His left hand hung heavily bandaged at his side. Otherwise, he looked hale, alert, and animated by barely-constrained energy. Under his open vest, a light sheen of sweat stuck his tunic against his broad chest. The shuttered room was stuffy and overhumid.

Zevran stood in the doorway, removing his pack from his shoulder. “I have good news and bad news, my friend. First, the good: I found an excellent salve for your hand, as well as some oranges for a mostly reasonable price. Alas, the bad news: I was followed here.” 

Taliesen’s eyes went wide. “What? How many Crows? Do we parlay or should I get a second bow - ”

Zevran held up a hand. “Not to worry. My pursuer was our newest and loveliest compañera, who tells me we have a job after all.” Rinna took her cue to poke her head out from the other side of the door. She gave a jaunty wave. 

Taliesen let out a sigh that contained relief, annoyance, and anticipation. “Fuck you,” he said amiably. “If no one’s coming to kill us, make yourselves useful and unlatch some windows.”

They stepped inside and set about doing so. Taliesen’s room was sparse. His furniture was well-made but simple: table, chairs, dressing table, and a bed all carved from the same light, hard wood. Beside one window, a series of charcoal sketches had been nailed to the wall. As Rinna opened the shutters, the papers fluttered in the welcome breeze. The drawings displayed city vistas only recognizable to someone who spent a lot of time on rooftops. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed, which likely contained weapons and the larcenous tools of their trade. Besides the sketches, the only personal items she could see were a dozen press-printed books on a low shelf. Apprentices were forbidden from owning personal property; Rinna knew some Crows took awhile to get into the habit. 

She thought wistfully of her old rooms in the Valisti compound, from which she had been unceremoniously evicted only a week ago. Now, all her things were in a shithole, dockside apartment until she found somewhere else to rent on short notice. She hoped fervently she could move before bedbugs or other vermin encroached.

Zevran carefully unlocked the draw on the crossbow and removed the bolt before laying it on the floor. In its place, he set his pack on the table and pulled out a roll of linen, alongside a small glass jar. Taliesen had already begun to unpin his old bandages, but Zevran caught his hand to take over unwinding the fabric. He sat down and leaned against the taller man with an easy intimacy. 

Meanwhile, Rinna turned a chair around to sit down, leaning forward against the backrest. She produced a dagger from her boot and began cutting one of the oranges into neat slices. “ ‘Newest and loveliest,’ ” she scoffed, “A bit bold to flirt with me in front of your friend, isn’t it?” 

Taliesen snorted. 

“I flirt in front of everybody,” Zevran said mildly. From between the folds of bandage, he drew out thin metal rods that had braced Taliesen’s broken fingers in place. When he peeled away the innermost wrapping, he revealed red, blistered skin. The oranges did an admirable job of masking the smell.

Rinna bit into a slice of fruit, unfazed by the medical proceedings. “I just thought you were spoken for.”

“Actually,” Taliesen interjected, “We prefer not to do a lot of speaking on the subject.” 

Zevran leaned over to pick up Rinna’s dagger. This, he used to cut an arm’s length scrap of linen. “To be clear, in addition to one another, we both see other people.” He looked up and caught her eye. “And if you’d like to be one of them, you have only to ask.”

Rinna stared at him, caught between chagrin and bewilderment. “Is that a serious offer?”

He smiled. “As serious as you’d like.” He returned his attention to his work, carefully measuring a second strip of linen against his arm. 

Finally, she said, “Zevran, you hardly know me.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Rinna nearly choked on a bite of orange as a peal of giggles overtook her. The two men watched her as she tried and failed to collect herself.

“Thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Taliesen remarked dryly.

Rinna began laughing in earnest. Zevran put down the roll of cloth, nonplussed. “Two nights ago, I recall you reminding me exactly how good I was - ”

Taliesen reached over with his uninjured hand to shove him off-balance. Zevran chuckled but the other man looked a bit grim. “Not now,” he muttered. Fondly, but a warning.

Rinna finally caught her breath and was wiping away tears of mirth. “What a proposition.”

Taliesen offered a sardonic smile. “Our compañero can be horrifyingly persistent, but despite what you might think, a simple ‘no’ will deter him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I decide he needs deterring.”

Taliesen raised an eyebrow. Zevran’s mouth fell open in delighted surprise. He composed his face into a smile just barely gracious enough to avoid being labeled a smirk. “Then I look forward to getting to know each other better.”

A slightly giddy mood settled over the three of them. Rinna chided herself; she liked flirting, generally, but this was a bad moment to abandon professionalism.

A cross-breeze passed pleasantly between the open windows. She picked up another slice of orange while Zevran resumed his work. With the tip of the dagger, he pried the cork off the apothecary jar. From inside, he picked up some dark green paste onto two fingers, then began to massage it into a section of clean linen he held in his other hand. He continued bit-by-bit until the fabric was saturated. Then he held up the now damp, greenish strip. “You’re not going to like this next part.”

“Get on with it,” Taliesen said gruffly, “I like having a useless hand even less.”

Zevran placed the end of the linen in the center of Taliesen’s cupped palm. Taliesen grit his teeth and inhaled in a hiss as the fabric wrapped around his blistered skin. “How’s the ear?”

“Painful and disgusting.” Zevran announced. “Although I am touched by your concern.” He finished wrapping the soaked linen and set about preparing a second strip. “I’m hoping for a dashing scar, or perhaps something I can put an earring through, but I am not optimistic.”

Taliesen managed a chuckle, then winced when Zevran began wrapping another layer of bandages. He took a long drink from his watered wine and set the empty cup down on the table with slightly more force than was necessary. “Right. So Doña Oristano has deigned to keep us alive. What’s this mission?”

Rinna had finished the first orange and had taken back her dagger to begin cutting the second. “First, I’ll add a caveat. Deigned to keep you alive ‘for now.’ She’s offered what she probably hopes will be a suicide mission.” She paused for dramatic effect. “We’re assassinating Marquesa Adeliz Maranzalla.”

Taliesen looked at her blankly. Zevran remained engrossed in his work. Against the damp bandages, he had begun to carefully align the small metal rods along the joints of a broken index finger.

Rinna upturned her hands in disbelief. “Marquesa Maranzalla? The King’s Voice? Sits on the City Council like Oristano, but speaks on behalf of the royal family.”

“Oh.” Taliesen whistled. “Thought she sounded familiar.”

Zevran spoke up. “Just a moment. ‘We?’”

“Yep.” Rinna put her elbows atop the backrest of the chair and set her chin on her folded hands. “Maestra Leonora asked - well, she didn’t really ask, she ordered - me to captain your mission. Act as leader and strategist. So we’ll be a team of three.”

Zevran broke into a grin. “That's marvelous.” He’d finished placing the metal rods and was wrapping a final layer of linen around his friend's hand. This one was dry, without any green paste. As he wrapped, he pinned the fabric tightly in place. Throughout the process, his movements had been confident, but he finished with speed and self-assurance of a trained healer. When he was through, he released the hand and explained. “That will harden to protect the skin and hold everything in place. You’ll be able to go a week before we have to fuss with it again.”

Taliesen held up his bandaged hand and turned it before his eyes. “Thanks, Zev.”

Zevran only nodded. He stood and crossed over to the dressing table, taking the linen and jar with him. He sat down before a small shaving mirror and bit his lip as he began to unpin the bandages around his ear.

Taliesen glanced up at Rinna, frowning. She was half-way through the second orange, gazing out of one window. He cleared his throat. “I know you can’t refuse an order, so you’re on the mission. And I’m grateful for backup. But… I’d rather be the one calling the shots on strategy. We have our own style. I know how Zevran and I work together.”

Rinna turned her attention from the window to regard him. “I wasn’t told to be backup. I was told to lead.”

“I understand.” His words came out in a gruff rush. “But killing Ines Oristano is my mistake to atone for. The captain of a mission gets the credit. And I need a high-profile success to stay on track towards becoming a maestro - ”

Rinna interrupted him, irritation twisting her face. “Then captain your _next_ mission. When I lied on your behalf and the two of you promised to be my allies, I was looking forward to bossing you around, maybe have you bring me things - ” 

“You could still do that, if you wanted,” Zevran said from across the room. They ignored him.

“I’m not sure I like the idea of _working_ with you.” Rinna continued. She got to her feet and turned her chair around so she could lean forward with her elbows on the table. “But if we have to undertake a mission together, I’d prefer to lead.”

Taliesen tried a different tactic: a reasonable appeal to avarice. “That’s hardly fair to you. We told Leonora we’d work for Oristano for free. You should be getting paid.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Rinna said, with a kind of aggressive, sarcastic cheerfulness. “But I am getting paid. Rather a lot. Good luck sorting out _your_ debt, though.”

This seemed to push Taliesen over the edge. He splayed his unbandaged hand on the table and rose out of his seat, his voice a growl. “So you’re getting credit as captain of our mission _and_ getting paid for our mission.”

Rinna stood as well and met his fiery gaze with heat of her own. “Yes. So get over your pride, Taliesen.” She inhaled sharply as if considering something, then looked unable to restrain herself. She continued boldly, “Frankly, you should be grateful to work with me. Assuming we pull this off, it will probably be the most competent job you’ve ever completed.”

“You think so?” Taliesen barked out a harsh laugh. “You’ll be begging to work with us again when this is over. We’re the only assassins to survive Arainai apprenticeship in three years.”

She leaned across the table so she could keep her voice low. “Good job not dying and everything,” she scoffed, “But I don’t think you understand. You’re getting the best strategist in all of House Valisti.”

Taliesen’s face was inches from hers. “Then why were you transferred?”

Rinna faltered. Her breath caught and her eyes narrowed. “That’s… none of your concern,” she snapped. 

The silence that followed made her them both aware of their proximity and the escalation of their argument. Rinna blinked. His eyes were a luminous hazel and his dark lashes were long.

Slowly but simultaneously, their expressions softened to chagrin. They lowered themselves back into their seats. Taliesen stroked his beard and Rinna put a hand to her curls. 

When he spoke again, his voice was gruff but softer. “You don’t have to explain if you’re unwilling. I just prefer it when other people don’t tell me what to do.”

“This is a bad line of work for you,” Rinna observed.

“For now,” he replied. “Until I make maestro.”

“So that’s the game, is it?” she said softly.

Zevran watched their exchange with some interest. While they’d sparred, he’d worked to salve and rebandage his ragged earlobe. As Taliesen and Rinna fell silent, he slid a final pin into the fresh linen, fastening the fabric in place. 

He stood and crossed back over to the table, at ease despite the tension radiating between the other two. He put a hand on Taliesen’s shoulder. “When we kill this Maranzalla,” he said conversationally, “It will be an impressive feat, regardless of who captains the mission. I don’t believe we’ve ever assassinated someone as important as the King’s Voice.” 

He sat down beside his friend, addressing Taliesen but looking at Rinna. “It might even accelerate your path to promotion.” He shrugged. “Repaying a debt to a doña does have a certain flair.”

Zevran’s presence had a mollifying effect. Taliesen rolled his shoulders and flexed the fingers on his good hand to crack his knuckles. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner we start earning three thousand andris,” he conceded.

Zevran smiled. “As ambitious as you are handsome.” He clapped him on the back. “Personally, I would rather have kept that last thousand.”

Taliesen’s reply was brusque but jovial. “Then fuck up your own mission and make your own bargain.”

They both laughed. Rinna watched the easy way they touched each other: with the rough stupidity of young men, but the attentive fondness of old friends. If she hadn't heard them at the villa, she might not have guessed they were lovers. And what Taliesen had said was true: a simple 'no' would deter Zevran; he'd honored that single warning against innuendo. Evidently, they were capable of obfuscating the physical part of their relationship. They were an usual pair, as Crows went. She found herself struggling to get a read on them.

Then she was off-balanced further. Taliesen caught her eye and inclined his head. “I apologize,” he said simply. “As our captain, you’ve been briefed on our mission. I interrupted before you could explain further.”

She felt herself soften, bemused but a little skeptical. “Ready to have me tell you what to do?” she asked lightly.

“I hear our strategist was the best in Valisti.” Taliesen returned her smile. “Might not be as good as me, but I’m willing to give you a chance.” His voice was teasing, a little rough, just on the friendly side of mocking. The utter self-assurance in his manner called out to be challenged. She could almost see why Zevran started sleeping with him.

Then again, it appeared that the elf’s tastes were far from discerning. At the moment, he was watching her with the expression of someone enjoying a private joke. That was irritating. 

This was beginning to feel like some sort of Maker-sent test. Work alongside two attractive, aggravating, strangely sincere but very reckless young assassins. She really needed to set a better president about flirting. Unfortunately, her mouth moved slightly faster than her brain.

“It’s true,” she said wistfully, “I suppose now I’ll have to start calling myself merely the best in Arainai.” She continued speaking overtop of Taliesen’s next retort, collecting her thoughts. “We have a week before Doña Oristano wants our initial report. Our job is to gather information, and to make a plan for how we’ll kill Maranzalla. And here’s how we’re going to start…”


	6. Testament to His Training

Perched on the tiled rooftop of an outbuilding of the Villa Maranzalla, Taliesen sketched and sweat. He balanced a drawing board atop his crossed legs. In one corner of the page, he outlined crumbling crenellations with short, precise strokes of charcoal. At the opposite corner, the roll of paper threatened to curl inward. Only the weight of his bandaged left hand kept it in place.

The brick chimney at his back concealed him from eyes on the ground. He was further obscured by the dappled shadows of two beech trees that stretched overhead. He’d chosen this spot not only for its deep shade, but because it was mercifully free of gull shit. A dozen birds roosted on the other end of the roof, squawking intermittently. 

Assassination, he thought drolly, was an ever-glamorous career. Still, there were indignities worse than being a Crow among seagulls.

If he turned his head to the right, in the distance, Antiva City sprawled and tumbled down the hills toward the sea. The Selena River was a blinding ribbon of gold in the morning light. From here, chantry spires and squalid slums bled together into a magnificent abstraction. The city became a painting, not a place where people lived messy lives and died messy deaths. 

To his left, he had an idyllic vantage over an apricot orchard. A half-dozen laborers moved between rows of trees, pulling down fruits and tossing them into baskets. A worn dirt path separated the orchard from the stable he sat atop. The path stair-stepped upwards over the terraced landscape, until it disappeared through a sculpted hedge that marked the entrance to the formal gardens. 

Taliesen, however, looked ahead, up past the hedges. His view of the horizon ended with the yellow stone wall surrounding the villa itself. From a canvas pack beside him, he drew forth a spyglass and extended it with a snap. He negotiated to hold it one-handed, squinting through the aperture. 

The wall was ancient. Broken crenellations and scorch marks marred the battlements, but the stone was high and strong. Taliesen imagined it surviving siege by Tevinter magisters, generations ago when the Empire thought Antiva might have been more profitable conquered than independent. Now, the only battle the wall had to withstand was the onslaught of time and ivy. He watched two guards deep in conversation as they leaned over the ramparts. Their crossbows’ metal fastenings gleamed in the sun.

He shut the spyglass and looked down again to the paper. He shaded some detail to a particular wall section, then surveyed the whole of his work. 

Across the page, he’d rendered an exhaustive map of the grounds: the location of servants’ housing and work buildings, the contents of fields and orchards, even lines to indicate topography. The edges of the paper were quickly filling up with inset details, like the battlements he’d just finished. Centered on the map was the old wall. Inside it, the page was conspicuously blank. The crammed margins’ minutiae gave the empty space a vexing, almost insolent quality.

Three days ago, Rinna had only asked him for a cursory investigation of the grounds. Taliesen was in no mood for “cursory.” The map was the product of three days and nights spent spying and exploring. At this point, he had no intention to return to the city until he laid eyes on the Villa Maranzalla itself. The only way to do that was to pass the garden gatehouse, and the only way past the gatehouse was with a sufficient alibi. 

Yesterday evening, quite unexpectedly, he’d managed to get one. This morning, he needed only to wait until the first couriers arrived to begin his work in earnest. Now that he finally had a plan, the waiting felt like torture. 

Recent events had lent his enthusiasm a dogged, almost feverish quality. As he sketched and peered intermittently up the path, the disastrous result of the Estrada mission weighed heavily on his mind.

Worse than the humiliation of being frozen in place, worse than the bolt of white agony when each metacarpal snapped, worse even than the chance that his hand would heal badly, was the grip of powerlessness as he’d looked into Leonora’s face. The moment she raised her staff, he had guessed what she would do. If she’d been any other mage in the city, his stiletto would have been in her gut as soon as the ice had faded. But Leonora was a maestra; he had to endure whatever she gave. He could neither defend himself nor retaliate. If he thought about it too hard, he could make himself nauseous with anger.

While he’d loathed Leonora since he was a child, simply and as a matter of fact, she wasn’t truly the object of his ill-temper on this humid, sunny morning. The only person to blame for his current misfortune - his expensive debt, broken hand, and bruised ego - was himself.

He knew damn well why he and Zevran had missed the Oristano family’s purchased protection. The two of them had spent much of the time they’d normally reserve for reconnaissance drinking, cheating strangers at cards, and fucking as though the next Blight was upon them. Frequently, all three in one evening.

Taliesen has known, distantly, that they were luxuriating a bit in their newfound freedom as compañeros. As apprentices, they had adhered to strict schedules: where they went, how they trained, even when they slept. Surveillance was as ceaseless as the threat of punishment. Now, in rare moments, they almost felt relaxed. Therein lay the problem.

Zevran was his dearest friend, and one of his better lovers. Not that he’d directly tell the elf either of those things. The latter would only fuel his already insufferable ego, and the former could be only be cheapened by acknowledging it with words. 

The two of them were brilliant assassins. Taliesen knew this as surely as he knew that the sunset followed the dawn. They didn’t need any maestro holding their leash, and he planned to prove it. Instead of stewing in impotent anger over his debt, his hand, and his ego, he put his energy toward what he could control: get a glimpse past those bloody walls and find a way inside the villa itself.

A new sound broke through the gulls’ chatter: the plod of hooves and jingle of tack. Taliesen looked up from his drawing and craned his head. A dusty horse picked its way up the terraced path. Its rider was a short-haired woman dressed in servant’s livery of a family he didn’t recognize. In the orchard, none of the workers gave her a glance. She was the first of two dozen couriers who’d visit throughout the day.

He followed her with his gaze as she passed beneath his vantage. From her first appearance, to the moment horse and rider passed through the hedges into the garden, she never once looked upward.

Taliesen exhaled with a little smile. He removed his bandaged hand from the map, which swiftly sprung into a roll. He stowed the paper and drawing board into his canvas pack, then swung it onto his back. As he rose to a crouch, gulls exploded into the air on the opposite end of the roof, shrieking with surprise. Next to the cacophony and flutter of feathers, no one in the orchard noticed a dark shape maneuver itself down the woodpile behind the stable, then onto the ground.

Silently, Taliesen pulled open a door at the stable’s back and slipped inside. He allowed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, cut by beams of dusty sunlight through the stall windows. The horses were out to pasture; every stall was empty save for one. An elderly gelding with milky eyes stood placidly in the farthest stall. It flicked its ears toward his approach.

The dirt floor was packed down enough that his footsteps didn’t show. He moved deliberately down the aisle to stay out of the windows’ sight lines. In front of the blind horse’s stall was a large tack box. He knelt down before it. Without disturbing the dust coating its lid, he slide his fingers between the top and the base and hitched it open.

Inside were two rectangular packages, each bundled in oilcloth. One was light and the other was heavy. Underneath their oilcloths, both were wrapped in thick, brown paper. Underneath the paper, Taliesen had discovered, each was a bound, printed book. He removed the packages and stowed them in his pack. In their place went his map, board, and drawing tools.

Next, he climbed up into the stable’s loft, careful to avoid a rotting rung on the old ladder. There, he undertook a quick change of clothes: from dark leathers to the tunic and breeches of a respectable retainer, stolen yesterday from a servant’s outbuilding. He nestled his old clothes into the hay, alongside a cloth-wrapped bundle containing hard cheese, jerky, and a half-empty bottle of wine. Also stolen yesterday. 

The only details that remained across the change were the stiletto sheathed against his spine and the salve-hardened cast around his left hand. The ruffled sleeves at his wrists partially obscured it. He finger-combed his hair to coax the dark curls away from “madman living in a stable” and towards merely “unkempt.”

Into the loft’s dusty quiet, Taliesen let out a long, deliberate exhale. Then he descended the ladder one-handed, shouldered his pack, and ducked out again into the bright sunshine.

When Taliesen rounded the building and stepped onto the terraced path, he was a man transformed. Gone was the precise, silent way he moved. His feet scuffed against the ground in an unhurried gait. He slouched with the casual weariness of someone who’d just walked an hour on foot from the city limits. Where his pack lay against his back, his shirt was immediately sweat-soaked, lending further credence to the fiction. 

The greatest asset to any disguise was its observer’s expectations. The laborers in the orchard ignored him as thoroughly as they’d ignored the woman on horseback. As he passed rows of trees, he received not even a cursory glance.

Beyond the hedge, Maranzalla’s gardens were a many-tiered splendor of flowerbeds, fountains, and evergreen shrubs torturously trimmed into geometric shapes. The perfume of roses was heavy in the humid air. He passed between two reflecting pools, choked with lilies and swarming with dragon flies.

As he followed the path’s uphill slope, he came upon a grotto built into the rise. A marble statue of Andraste stood enshrined, her hand outstretched in a gesture of benediction. Sunset-colored ranunculus grew around her bare feet. Her eyes were cast upward in dreamlike reverence. Twin olive trees sheltered the statue, and shaded the low benches arranged in a semi-circle before her. A restful spot for contemplation or prayer.

Yesterday afternoon, Taliesen had discovered just how restful.

In his first foray into the gardens, the assassin had come upon a city courier, napping atop one of the benches. His canvas-covered pull cart simply sat beside him. The man had been snoring so deeply, Taliesen felt comfortable perusing its contents. It was from that cart that he’d liberated the two packages he now carried, resolutely, toward the villa’s service entrance. Just another deliveryman joining the daily procession. 

In deference to yesterday’s small blessing, Taliesen inclined his head toward the statue as he passed. The Bride of the Maker wasn’t known to smile on assassins, but it never hurt to be respectful.

Past gnarled trees, strange topiaries, and twists and turns of the garden path, at last he came upon the gatehouse. High hedges funneled the path toward an arched entrance between two stone turrets. The thick and bethorned brambles were nearly as impenetrable as the villa’s ancient wall. Perhaps they could be cut or burned, but it would take prolonged and conspicuous effort, in full view of whoever manned the post.

On cue, a guard emerged from a door at the base of one of the turrets. He stood beneath the arch’s shadow, arms crossed over his chest. He was only a little older than Taliesen, perhaps mid-twenties, with a somber, ruddy face and blond hair dusting his forearms.

The assassin had seen a lot of guards in his line of work. They tended to carry showy weapons like spears, or light weapons like rapiers. This one, however, had an odd, curved knife sheathed at his belt. The heavy gloves he wore implied he might actually be prepared to use it. This, combined with the the canny, appraising expression he wore, set Taliesen just a touch on edge.

Beyond the hedges and the gatehouse arch, the villa’s stone wall loomed in the bright sunshine.

Five paces away from the gatehouse, Taliesen stopped short and made easy eye-contact.

“Your business, ser?” The guard’s voice was a brisk baritone.

The assassin-turned-courier affected his accent. He went for Docks district, lower class than the way he’d been trained to speak. He imitated the men who worked nearby the Crow’s apprentice warehouses. The affable weariness came naturally. “Delivering from Woodhaven Press.” 

The name of the publishing house had been easy to deduce. It was inscribed on the brown paper covering each book. He hadn’t expected the man to raise a droll eyebrow when he mentioned it. 

“Fixed that cock-up from yesterday?” the guard grinned.

Taliesen gave him a blank, mild look. The guard continued conversationally, “Heard the Marquesa was pretty pissed when her last order came up short. First printing of a Verragio novel has got to be worth a fortune. Did it turn up?”

“Not sure what they sent me with,” he replied, with the polite disinterest of service workers everywhere.

The guard shifted his weight to his other foot. “Shame. I’ll need to see inside your bag before I send you in.”

Taliesen swung the pack off his shoulder and opened the canvas obligingly, revealing the two wrapped, rectangular packages. The guard peeled away the oilcloth to reveal the handwritten ‘Havenwood’ label and wax seal pressed to each brown paper wrapping.

“You should have see the boy yesterday,” the guard went on, peering inside the bag. “White as a sheet when he read the ledger and saw he was missing the Verragio. How’d you lot lose something like that?”

Taliesen simply shrugged. “I don’t work for them. Just hired as a runner.” Inwardly, his machinations had come to a screeching halt. New wheels suddenly turned. He’d accidentally stolen a very valuable book...? And he was planning to just _give it back_ , when he owed Arainai three thousand andris?

The guard appeared satisfied with the pack’s contents. He closed the canvas and patted it. “Right. Well, a steward will take those from you at the service entrance. Clockwise around the wall and you’ll see her. Then I’ll see you right back here.”

And at last, Taliesen was beyond the gatehouse. He emerged from the garden’s intermittent green shade into the merciless, full sunlight outside of the wall. He walked beside it, letting his fingers trail along its rough, flax-yellow stone.

First, he passed the main gate: two massive, wooden doors, covered by an iron-barred portcullis. The entrance was wide enough for a team of horses to pass through unhindered. Had Maranzalla not been so reclusive, this gate might occasionally have been thrown open for balls and parties. He briefly pondered it as an option for a break-in, but concluded that it’d be easier to climb the thirty-foot walls than to raise the heavy, clattering portcullis without attracting attention.

Could they climb the walls? Thirty feet up a knotted rope wouldn’t be difficult for any Crow, particularly with stone to brace their feet against. But how would they secure their rope at the top? In the dead of night, could they get a modified crossbow bolt into the crenellations without guards noticing?

Taliesen rounded the corner, and was suddenly face-to-face with the courier on horseback he’d seen outside the orchard. Evidentially she’d completed her delivery. Her gaze slid over him carelessly, and they passed one another without acknowledgement. The smell of her horse’s sweat and dust shook him from his contemplations. 

Before him now was another, much smaller break in the stone. Two people were positioned on either side. Nearer to him was a woman in a violet dress, seated on a stool behind a podium. Farther was a second guard: another earnest-looking young man with another odd, curved knife.

He approached the service entrance, suddenly aware that his heart was hammering in his chest. He stopped before the two retainers, and through the wall’s narrow gap, got his first and only look past Maranzalla’s wall.

It was a testament to his training that his face betrayed no reaction.

The Villa Maranzalla was beautiful: a wonder. He faced an elegant courtyard, half-lawn and half-tiled, filled with immaculately manicured rose bushes blooming in every color. A peacock strode beneath an arched arbor of wisteria. The mansion’s facade was hewn from gold-shot marble. Symmetrical staircases swept upward and inside to the first floor. Its third story was a columned gallery. Curiously, every window he could see was stained glass, tight with metal latticework. Those would be irritating to break through. The building lacked any convenient low balconies, like the one that had enabled their escape at Estrada, but the roof’s slope was gentle, which offered a few possibilities -

“Have you got something for us?” The steward addressed him, sounding slightly amused. She probably had to shake visitors out of their dumbstruck awe a few times a day.

Taliesen tore his eyes away from the villa, and looked at her for the first time. She was uncommonly lovely, with dark hair braided into a crown. A few strands fell loose around her olive, sharp-featured face. Taliesen thought wryly that she’d be Zevran’s type.

“Got something from Havenwood.” He spoke as he opened his pack, maintaining the accent he’d used before.

He placed the smaller and lighter of the two books atop her podium. Then he paused to stare back into the courtyard. Surely servants didn’t come and go using the main staircase? There must have been a servants' entrance into the building itself. Based on the layout of the tile path, he’d guess it was around the left side. And they’d have to do something about the peacock - he knew the birds were noisy if disturbed, an effective alarm against intruders.

The steward snapped her fingers to get his attention. This almost made him laugh, but he forced his expression to alight on a small smile.

“All this way just for one book?” she frowned.

Unlike the guard at the gatehouse, neither she nor the man beside her had spared a glance toward his pack. 

It wasn’t a conscious decision. The words simply left his mouth without apparent intervention from his brain. The assassin sighed and shook his head. “Just the one. I overheard my masters say they’re still looking for the Verragio. I’d guess they were feeling apologetic. They sent me with what they had to make amends.”

She sniffed. “Well, for their sakes, I hope they find it. Quickly.”

He inclined his head. He spared one final glance past the wall, trying to burn the shape of the mansion into his mind’s eye. Quickly, he counted the doors and windows he could see, noted the position of the tallest trees in the courtyard, and spotted a second peacock roosting in the shade of an arbor.

“You can go now,” the steward supplied helpfully. 

Taliesen knew he couldn’t afford to linger. Neither the steward nor the guard were paying particular attention to him. He didn’t intend to push his luck; he had to be entirely forgettable. He gave the two of them another polite nod, then forced himself to turn and walk away. Back he went, past the curve of the wall, past the huge portcullis, and back to the gatehouse and gardens.

The first guard was waiting for him when he returned, arms still crossed, leaning against the gatehouse arch. He pushed himself off the stone to a standing position as Taliesen drew near.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I wondered - what was the name of the man who hired you?”

He said it casually, almost softly, and so Taliesen pretended not to hear him as he continued walking.

Unfortunately, the guard repeated his question. “The name, sir, of who’s working at Havenwood today.” Taliesen had no choice but to turn back and face him. He kept his expression pleasant and a little bemused.

“Wanted to give him my regards,” the guard continued. “Havenwood sends couriers up here all the time, you see. Usually, I know their names and faces.”

There was something about the way he said those words. Not aggressive, but certainly not neutral. An acknowledgment of some suspicion.

Taliesen smiled and shrugged. “Didn’t get his name. Basically pulled me off the street. Hired me specifically for this errand.” He sighed as if conceding something. “I _did_ hear something about what you mentioned - a missing book? But I really don’t know anything more about it. I’m sorry.”

The guard held his gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then he made a small 'huh' sound and said gruffly, “On your way, then.”

The assassin passed the gatehouse and was in the gardens once more. 

As he walked between the hedges, he swore he could feel the guard’s eyes on his back. It took all his self-control to keep from glancing backward. After the next curve in the path, the sensation faded. On his route through the garden, he reviewed the villa’s appearance in his mind’s eye, scheming possibilities to break inside. Even if he couldn’t make the final call on strategy, he was eager to present Rinna with a few options he constructed himself.

On some level, he found himself wanting to impress this ridiculous, arrogant woman who had shown up to captain their mission. While her intervention hadn’t technically saved his life, she _had_ upheld their agreement to withhold information from their maestra. Taliesen liked owing people things about as much as he liked being told what to do. He urgently wanted their debt of obligation to shift back into his favor.

At last, he emerged from the line of hedges and back beside the orchard. For the last few minutes of his journey, the feeling of being watched had returned. 

Taliesen had survived one-and-twenty years by trusting a very specific set of instincts.

He adjusted the pack on his shoulder and wiped an arm against his sweat-soaked brow. Just sightly, he turned behind him as he did so. The gatehouse guard was walking down the garden path, unhurried but determined.

 _Fuck._ He could just continue on the road down to the city outskirts. The man certainly wouldn’t follow him off the property. But Taliesen didn’t want to undertake the hour’s walk back to the city, only to return later for the map he’d stowed in the tack box. More importantly, he didn’t relish the idea of exiting the area and leaving someone who’d taken particular notice of his movements.

The workers tending the orchard had moved on to other tasks. The guard was the only other person in sight. Taliesen veered off the path and toward the stable. When he pulled open the door, he left it purposefully ajar behind him.

Inside the dim and dusty building, Taliesen allowed his bubbling thoughts to drop away. He centered himself in his body’s sensations: the windows’ cross-breeze against his damp skin, the rise and fall of his breathing, the itch slowly developing under his cast. He rolled his pack off his shoulders, and the courier’s casual stance was gone. He stood in the center of the isle with the ease of someone used to being the most dangerous person in any particular room.

The door creaked open and the guard entered, blinking in the gloom.

“Shouldn’t you be at your post?” On the off-chance that he could avoid violence, Taliesen maintained his accent.

“I’m on break,” the guard said warily. “Someone just came by to relieve me. Wanted to go for a walk.”

“Do you usually spend your breaks following people?”

“Do you usually hang around in strangers’ stables?”

Taliesen shrugged magnanimously. “I hoped to have a private word with you.”

“It’s just odd,” the guard remarked, taking a few more steps inside, “that two important books would go missing from a delivery, and a stranger would show up to return them. A stranger who can’t name his employer, and who leaves with one of them still in his pack.” 

Despite the heat of the day, Taliesen went cold. In his mind’s eye, he’d begun measuring the distance between his hand and the guard’s chest in stiletto-lengths.

“And don’t bother telling me you dropped it off. I can tell from the shape of your pack. Doesn’t add up,” the guard finished. “So what’s going on? Who are you, really?”

“Let’s hear your best guess.”

The guard put his hand on the hilt of his curved knife. “Someone up to no good, that’s for certain.”

“And have you shared your suspicion with anyone else?”

Here, the man’s face twisted into an ugly grin, glowing with nobility and self-satisfaction. “Not yet. I wanted the credit if I’d managed to spot a thief. Want to show me what’s inside your pack and prove me right?”

Taliesen returned his smile. The problem was easily dealt with, after all. “Absolutely not.”

The guard drew his knife in a silver whisper. He lunged forward with the blade raised in an overhand, stabbing grip. It was a decent opening: professional, high potential for lethality, but terribly predictable.

Taliesen rolled his eyes and stepped to the side. He grabbed the man’s forearm and pulled him forward, taking him off-balance. Savagely, he used his grip to twist the man’s arm and shoulder backward until the guard had to adjust to compensate. This brought his body in front of Taliesen, pressed together back-to-front. 

With a precise movement, he pinched hard at the tendon where palm met wrist, forcing the guard’s grip to go slack. Taliesen slid his fingers farther up and managed to maneuver the curved blade out of the man’s grasp and into his own. 

This was the point at which the assassin would have normally used his off-hand to shove him to the ground, but the cast robbed him of the necessarily dexterity. Improvising, he simply drove his boot behind the guard’s knee. The larger man buckled, held up mostly by Taliesen’s left arm around his throat.

It was less elegant than he might have preferred, but it got the job done.

Taliesen dropped the accent. “I’m a bit more dangerous than a thief, actually." He held the guard’s own knife with the tip pressed against his stomach. “Tell me truly and I’ll let you live. Did you tell your relief at the gatehouse you were going to follow me? Tell anyone else what you’d noticed about me?”

“No!” he gasped. “On my life, I didn’t tell a soul.”

Taliesen exhaled, relaxing a fraction. “Well. That’s a relief.” Then he slid the knife up and under the guard's ribs.

His body sagged in Taliesen's arms, then droped to the ground.

Absently, Taliesen wiped the blood coating his hand onto his stolen servant’s shirt.

He cast about the stable before appearing to come to a decision. He stepped over to the old ladder leading up to the loft, eyeing the rotting, damaged rung. He drove his right elbow down into the wood, shattering it.

Much harder than killing the guard was dragging his body, one-handed, over to the patch of ground below the ladder. Taliesen was careful to pull him on his back so blood didn’t immediately coat the dirt. Once in place, he artfully replaced the man’s own knife back into the wound in his chest. For the final detail, he scurried up into the loft and returned with his bag of provisions and half-empty bottle of wine. He poured a few drops onto the man’s lolling tongue, and splashed the rest onto his tunic for good measure. This finished, he flipped the body over onto its stomach.

This last bit was truly vexing to manage, one-handed. The stable’s only occupant, the old horse, seemed to watch him as he struggled. 

Taliesen addressed the horse dryly, hitching himself up on a breath to maneuver the corpse. “Don’t worry. I highly doubt you’ll be implicated.”

The story would be obvious to whoever discovered the body: the gatehouse guard had been drinking on his break, gotten clumsily drunk, and when a ladder rung had broken beneath him, he’d tragically fallen on his own knife. 

Moving swiftly now, Taliesen opened the horse’s tack box to pull his map and drawing supplies into his pack. These nestled nicely beside his new prize: an apparently valuable manuscript by someone called Verragio. When he changed back into dark leathers, he wadded his stained servant’s clothing into a ball atop the other items.

There’d be no using the stable as a base of operations now. He briefly considered returning to the city for a decent meal and a hot bath. But something tugged at him. He’d seen the villa, if only briefly, but still didn’t have any plans to get inside. It was the beginning of the weekend: perhaps the routines of servants, serfs and messengers on the property would change in a way that would be fruitful for spying. And wasn’t due to report back to Rinna and Zevran until tomorrow.

Perhaps one more day and night would provide further inspiration. Taliesen left the stable and set off to lie low in the gardens until the heat of the day passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter later than I intended. Had some gift exchange fics to work on, started a new job, then my laptop broke! At last, I have resumed a routine. I’m still editing sections I wrote awhile back, but some chapters need more editing than others. No beta reader, so sometimes things slip past me.
> 
> I’m so, so grateful for the comments I’ve gotten on previous chapters. I honestly wasn’t sure if anyone would be interested in this story. For some reason, these three are the rarepair (raretrio?) (crowt3) I’ve chosen to die for, and I could not move on with my life until I wrote about them.


	7. A Chance Meeting

Perched atop a stool in a tucked-away bar in the Vespara district, Zevran smiled and sipped his wine. 

It was a hillside establishment, so the floors were free from dirt, the dark wood counter was polished to a gentle shine, and the wall sconces contained round glass oil lamps instead of candles. These illuminated low beams across the ceiling, each carved with swirling flowers, leaves and branches.

The bar was a single, narrow room, built to fill the shape of an alley. Against one wall, low divans and tables were mostly empty. A few patrons chatted quietly in knots of twos or threes.

Zevran was alone at the bar itself, save for the woman on the seat beside him. She lounged comfortably with her back and elbows against the counter. She wore a violet, lace-bodiced dress overtop a cream-colored blouse. Both were plain but well-tailored. Her dark hair was braided into a crown held in place with silver pins, with a few loose strands artfully arranged to frame her face.

Over the rim of her mostly-empty glass, she gazed at him with bright, discerning eyes. “Really? Your ear was cut off in a fight?”

Zevran raised a self-conscious hand to touch the bandages. “Not _cut off_ , no. But it has looked lovelier.”

“Well, what happened?”

At the far end of the counter, the bartender was arranging bottles of liquor with the sort of conspicuous industry that assured that he was eavesdropping. Zevran spared him a pointed glance, then returned his attention to his companion. “Hmm. I would prefer to call it a work-related incident and leave it at that. The details are a bit sordid.”

She arched a lovely eyebrow. “Now I’m terribly interested.”

“It is a fine tale.” He offered an apologetic smile. “But my work is of a sensitive and somewhat, ah, unsavory nature. I fear you will think less of me, Daniella.”

“If it’s sensitive and unsavory, would it help if I promised to keep it a secret?” At this, Daniella passed her glass from one hand to the other, leaning closer as she brought her chin to rest in her open palm.

Zevran allowed an indecisive beat to pass, before he sighed. “My weakness for a pretty face is my undoing once again.” He took a sip from his own mostly-empty glass. “For the past three years, I’ve been smuggler on the Eastern Seas.” He paused and awaited a reaction.

“Not scandalized yet,” she said, looking equal parts pleased and intrigued.

“Glad I am to hear it. Now, as you can imagine, my crew and I occasionally run afoul of the King’s navy.”

“ _Your_ crew?” Her eyes sparkled. “You’re a captain, Matias?”

The name he’d given her was one of his defaults. It belonged to an old friend, one of his fellow apprentices who’d died before they left the leatherworking district.

At her question, he merely shrugged, the picture of humility. “A week ago, my ship was boarded by a lieutenant desperate to catch us with some manner of illicit cargo. As it happened, we had just completed a delivery, so we allowed his men to search anywhere they pleased. But…”

Here, Zevran lowered his voice. To his immense satisfaction, she leaned closer to catch his words. “Below deck, out of my sight, his sailors planted unmarked crates of raw lyrium. A hanging offense.” His eyes hardened. “For the sake of my crew, I would never trade in such things. Too dangerous. But of course, I could not protest my innocence. I had no choice but to draw steel.”

She didn’t _gasp,_ per se, but her lips parted in surprise as her eyebrows drew upward. He continued his story sotto voce. “We put up an honorable defense, but we were badly outnumbered. By the grace of the Maker, my closest crewmates and I escaped on a rowboat, with our lives and little else. But not before the lieutenant took a piece of me with him.” He tapped his cheek below his bandaged ear.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zevran saw the bartender offer an impressed little frown as he pretended to clean something. Beside him, Daniella had recovered herself enough to reply. “Matias - I’m so sorry about your ship. What’s become of your crew in the mean time?”

Zevran took another drink, savoring the taste of his wine, as well as the heady thrill of extemporizing. “We’ve agreed to stay together in port for a time while we search for a new vessel. At this very moment, I suspect they’re asleep in their rented rooms. But after a week of lying low and licking my wounds, I needed fresh air.” He smiled at her. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, this evening has already exceeded my expectations.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, but didn’t look entirely displeased. “Just fresh air? That’s all your after?”

Zevran held up his hands innocently. “Can’t a man appreciate something beautiful when his world is so full of ugliness?”

The corners of her mouth drew upward. “I won’t begrudge you that.”

“Generous as well as lovely. But! That is quite enough about me.” He set down his glass. “Tell me more about yourself, Daniella.”

“Well,” she began, a bit wistfully as she swirled the dregs of her wine, “My affairs are not so interesting as those of a smuggler on the high seas.”

He looked at her gravely. “I pray they are never as interesting.”

“Forgive me! I don’t mean to be flippant about your loss.” He waved away her apology and she continued. “I work as a servant in a noble household.”

“Oh? Which family? Might I have heard of them?”

She smiled impishly. “I suspect that you have. But here’s where _I_ should decline to answer your questions. My mistress is a very private person.”

“After all I just confessed to you, you won’t tell me the name of your employer?” He put a hand over his heart. “Have I misjudged my confidant?” Now it was his turn to lean closer to her. He inclined his unbandaged ear and cupped his hand around it. “Tell me quietly, if you can’t bear to voice it aloud.”

She grinned. Evidently deciding to play along, she leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Maranzalla.” 

This was far from unpleasant. Her breath was warm, and her perfume was a smoky sandalwood.

“Well!” He regarded her as she drew back. “That is highborn. You surprise me,” said Zevran, who was about a far from surprised as a person could be. “But, and forgive me for assuming, if you were simply dusting furniture or darning socks, you could tell me that name without a second thought. That you must maintain your privacy implies you hold a position of importance.”

“It _should_ imply that,” Daniella said, a little sourly. “Lately I’ve been reduced to carrying packages back and forth from the gate into her study.” She drained her glass’s remaining contents. “I was hired to manage accounts and ledgers, look after her staff, place orders for food and materials. That sort of thing.”

“By the Maker,” he said softly. “What are the chances that someone like me would make the acquaintance of a Marquesa’s steward?”

The chances neared one-hundred percent. All it had taken were a few conversations with couriers who came and went up the dusty road to the estate, followed by an evening of waiting to spot her when she returned to the city from her work, followed by an additional two evenings of tailing her to discern that she frequented this particular bar. Considering the effort that had gone into arranging this “chance” meeting, he was delighted that it was off to such a strong start.

“Daniella, I cannot help but notice that you’ve finished your glass. Would you think me forward if I offered to buy you another?”

When he spoke, she looked more satisfied than surprised, as if he’d merely performed to her expectations. “I’m partial to a Genellen red.”

“Working with nobles must impart excellent taste,” he quipped. Expensive taste, more like. This was why he never drank hillside. 

As Zevran put gold on the counter, he thought fleetingly of his three thousand andris debt. Nevertheless, he committed to his act and bought a second glass for himself as well, although he had no plans to dull his wits further until he’d achieved his intended purpose.

After a murmured comment, they stood together and briefly surveyed the room. Daniella shared his enthusiasm for finding the quietest corner of the bar. Brushing past a few other patrons, they settled across from one another at a small table far from the door, in seats upholstered in soft brown brocade.

As she arranged her skirts to sit down, Zevran took a moment to admire his companion. A slight flush colored Daniella’s olive cheeks, perhaps from the wine, perhaps simply from the warm evening. She had a sharp and interesting face, especially for a human: high cheekbones, hawk nose, proud chin. Her dark eyes were lined with kohl. She truly was lovely. If they’d meet as strangers under other circumstances, he would have offered her a drink without a second thought. 

He raised his glass to his lips for the look of the thing. Although he barely managed a taste, he couldn’t suppress his sigh of pleasure. The wine was complexly dry, with a subtle oaky spice that unfolded across his tongue. Maybe there was some benefit to drinking hillside, after all.

Daniella was enjoying his reaction. “I hear rumors that Rivaini casks often make less-than-legal journeys across the sea to avoid tariffs. I might have thought, Matias, that you had ample opportunities to enjoy decent wine.” 

“Even if we carried such cargo, we'd be transporting them, not drinking them.” He demurred from her implied question. “Does a Marquesa’s steward have ample opportunities to enjoy decent wine?”

“I’d say ‘sufficient’ opportunities. Wine tastings are hardly typical duties.”

“What sorts of things occupy your time?”

She rolled her eyes. “I make sure important letters find their way directly into the Marquesa's hands. Then answer the rest of her letters that _aren’t_ important. I assign staff duties and make sure they’re doing what they’ve been told.” She took a full sip from her own glass, then appeared to remember something. She held up a finger as if delivering a lecture. “And it’s damned impossible to find decent staff these days. Just earlier today, one of our guards was drinking on duty and fell to his death from a ladder. Can you believe it? Freak accident.”

Zevran looked appropriately appalled. Inwardly, his thoughts had moved from trot to canter. In his experience, accidents like that were very rarely “freak” and most often “highly orchestrated.” What was Taliesen doing up there? He had to trust that whatever had transpired, his comrade had made the best decision.

Fortunately, Daniella didn’t seem to regard the occurrence as suspicious. She continued disdainfully, “Getting clumsy-drunk at midday? Maker’s breath! That’s common folk for you.”

Zevran frowned. He couldn’t help himself. “You and I are hardly Don and Doña.”

“Well, you may be an elven smuggler, but you’re educated. I can tell by the way you speak.” She raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “And you're literate. I saw you read the labels on the bottles behind the bar. Obviously, we’re not nobility or merchant princes, but we’re not… _common_ common.”

Ahh, there it was. Appealing to someone’s sense of superiority was a boring angle, but Zevran knew how to play it. He didn’t fancy the way she’d said “elven,” though. That put him off his interest a bit. 

As he felt his mood sour, he redoubled his efforts to be charming. “Clearly, you are a woman of rare talent and ability to manage such a complex series of affairs.” He let a little awe creep into his voice. “And you mentioned accounts and finances earlier, yes? I imagine you are the backbone holding up her entire household.”

It was so easy, but it still gave him a kind of perverse amusement to watch her preen. Daniella replied with a self-satisfied little laugh. “Basically, I make ordinary life run smoothly for a woman who never leaves her house.”

Zevran felt his pulse quicken. Here was the part where it was important that he sounded interested, but never eager. “So that rumor’s true? ‘Adeliz the Anchorite’ never leaves?” 

Daniella waved a hand dismissively. “Well, she goes out occasionally. But last year, I think only twice. The Marquesa answers no summons. If someone wants to see her, they have to be granted an audience in the villa.”

“Seems an incredibly inconvenient way to conduct business.”

“Well, King’s Voice isn’t a term-limited position. She plans to serve for life. So of course she’s terribly paranoid about assassination.”

In an exquisite deadpan, Zevran replied, “Very sensible. But many powerful people fear others’ ambition or retribution. Few sequester themselves inside their homes.”

Daniella looked hesitant for the first time since they’d sat away from the bar. “She has a… peculiar temperament. You know how nobles are.”

He laughed. “I truly do not. I’ve only met a handful. All have been third-son types. They join the navy seeking glory, or simply relief from boredom. So you’ll have to tell me what you mean.”

She pondered this as she took another sip of wine. “Well, Maranzalla is quite canny. But demanding. Eccentric. She reads a lot, and romantic fancies, mostly. A favorite pastime since her husband died.”

“How tragic!”

“It really isn’t,” she said dryly. “She had him murdered by the Crows some years ago.”

Zevran’s brows drew upward. This, he had not known. “Irreconcilable differences, as they say?”

This made her chuckle. “He was the King’s Voice before her. She thought _she_ could do a better job of it. The usual disagreements: trade, taxes, which royal bastard should inherit, how best to wrest power from the merchants to keep it with the nobility.”

“Did you work for her at that time?”

“Maker, no, all this was a decade ago. I was a teenager. But one hears rumors.”

“Do the rumors say how the Crows killed him?”

Daniella folded her arms over her chest. “Broke into the villa. I can’t say I like to think about it.”

From the way her brows knitted, he sensed he shouldn’t progress further down this line of inquiry. In his mind’s eye, though, Zevran was piecing together an interesting narrative. Guilty conscience over her husband’s murder drove Maranzalla to paranoid eccentricity. And at some point in the past, Crows _had_ been inside the villa itself. There was no telling how the Marquesa had improved her security in the ensuing decade, but at least once, there had been a way.

Zevran sought to lighten Daniella's mood. He offered a truly disarming smile. “Your mistress is fortunate to have such a devoted and skillful retainer. I hope she knows that.”

Daniella smiled and shrugged. “Like all jobs, there’s swift criticism when something goes wrong, but no one thanks you, or frankly notices you, when you perform to expectations.”

Zevran’s thoughts turned darkly toward his actual profession, but a mischievous smile was dawning on Daniella's face. She said, “You know, I also recently suffered an injury in my line of work.” He looked at her quizzically, and she held out her hand for him to examine. “Yesterday, I endured a terrible paper cut.”

They shared a laugh. In a moment of inspiration, Zevran caught her outstretched hand and raised her finger to his lips to kiss it. He watched her face: flustered but pleased. When he raised his head, she made no move to withdraw her hand from his.

Her laugh was a little breathless. “Maker, look at me. Flirting with a pirate.”

“Now Daniella, I’m a smuggler, not a pirate. I neither pillage nor plunder.”

“No plundering at all? Handsome elf like you?” Her eyes sparkled. “I’m surprised.”

He replied slowly, holding her gaze with a wry smile. “I only take things that are offered. Although occasionally, I get very lucky in what people offer me.”

A breath passed. They lowered their hands to the tabletop. 

Zevran looked away for a moment, then spoke up again conversationally. “Since you’re obviously capable, I wonder what sorts of letters are important enough to demand a response directly from your Marquesa?”

“Matias.” She turned her hand over to lace her fingers with his. “It’s very sweet to ask me all these questions. But someone like you needn’t pretend to be interested in my mundane professional life.”

“I pretend nothing!” Zevran protested. “There’s intrigue and glamour to working for nobility. It's very different from any life I’ve known.” His expression softened. “But if you were to press me into honesty - I think I could enjoy listening to you talk about nearly anything.”

“If you’re that interested,” she said lightly, “my apartment is only a few blocks away. I’m sure that would be a more comfortable place to continue our conversation. If your crew could bear your absence.”

Her offer was unambiguous. He couldn’t deny the thrill he got from steering their conversation to this point. 

Zevran considered. Daniella was simple and conceited - not particularly endearing personality traits. But although she wasn’t as important as she thought she was, she was a key player on Maranzalla’s estate. Her possible future uses were numerous. Strengthening their connection could prove fruitful in all sorts of ways.

Also, she _was_ attractive. 

Also, he suspected Taliesen had no plans to return from the villa’s grounds until tomorrow morning. 

All-in-all, for the sake of a mission, he’d slept with people under much less appealing circumstances. 

He met her eyes again. “Daniella, it would be my pleasure.” He took a deliberate drink from his glass. The rich, dry red lingered after he swallowed. 

They finished their wine while Zevran spun more stories of his daring adventures as a smuggler. Daniella’s end of the conversation was not without interesting details: the names of a few other nobles with whom Maranzalla kept in close contact, as well as the sordid plotlines of a few of the Marquesa’s favorite romance novels.

As they departed out into the warm summer night, Daniella slipped her arm through Zevran’s and leaned against him. “You know,” she murmured, “I’ve heard sailors are experts in all different kinds of knots.”

“Oh!” A sincerely wicked smile reached his eyes. “We are.”


	8. The Archives

At the ninth hour of the morning, Rinna met Taliesen at an outdoor cafe, dockside and not far from his apartment. He had the rumpled, red-eyed look of a man who had slept poorly for several nights. His beard had gone a little scruffy. The smells of sweat, hay, and orchard dirt clung to his clothes. However, his condition had dulled neither his wits nor his enthusiasm. As he sat down at their table, he moved with eager, precise determination.

He delivered his report succinctly, handing over a beautiful map, a press-printed book, and a leather folio case filled with papers. 

“A record,” Taliesen rapped his knuckles against the folio, “of about one hundred comings and goings from Maranzalla’s estate. This has more than you ever wanted to know. How many servants work inside, the hours when shifts change, the names of most of her guards, what time of day her head gardener takes a shit - ”

“Your attention to detail is commendable,” Rinna said wryly.

“Just after breakfast.”

She laughed, and his deadpan broke with a smile.

Rinna asked a few questions. While they talked, Taliesen ate a plate full of bread baked with olives, as well as a prodigious quantity of sliced melon. He left looking like only a bath stood between himself and a five-hour nap.

* * *

At the eleventh hour of the morning, Rinna met Zevran in a public square, sitting on the steps of a tiered fountain. His usual fastidious appearance had slipped somewhat. The braids that held back his hair were uneven, as if finished without the aid of a mirror. His tunic and breeches were disheveled. The ostentatious love bite on his neck offered an explanation for how he’d found himself in this state.

He had no notes or papers, but he brought her up to speed through a retelling of events that evolved from amusing to fascinating.

Zevran concluded his story with a coda. “I leave it to you how we might make further use of Maranzalla’s steward. I have little doubt that she would be amenable to a repeat performance.”

Rinna raised an eyebrow. “Your performance in the bar or in her bedroom?”

“Playacting and lovemaking share many similarities. Both involve capturing someone’s interest, escalation of tension, ideally a climax - ”

She found herself laughing again.

Rinna had questions for Zevran, as well. They talked quietly as they watched people pass through the square. He departed soon after for his apartment. By his own smug admission, he’d slept little the previous night. 

Her work, however, had only just begun.

* * *

The third hour of the afternoon found Rinna before a paper-strewn desk. She sat strangely: one foot on her chair’s seat, leaning forward with her cheek resting on her knee, her other leg folded beneath her. The desk was the only place to sit in the small, circular chamber. The other walls were lined by curved shelves of neatly organized books and ledgers. 

Between each shelf, columns rose from floor to ceiling. Snakes carved from marble coiled around their fluted grooves. At the top of each column, a snake held an alchemical light globe in its jaws. These lit the room the color of soft, blueish daylight. 

Rinna tugged absently at a twist of hair behind her pointed ear. She was copying text from an open book onto a loose piece of parchment. Her eyes moved back and forth between each page.

Once she reached the end of a paragraph, she replaced her quill in its stand and waved a hand over the wet ink. The parchment proclaimed:

_Umberto Maranzalla. 21 Cloudreach, 9:15._

_Adeliz Maranzalla sent a missive to House Valisti on 10 Drakonis, offering a price for a contract on her husband. During the ensuing negotiations, Adeliz provided the location of a siege supply tunnel running beneath the old fortezza wall of her ancestral home._

_The accepted bid was placed by Mansour Valisti, who undertook the mission with a squad of four. A first-year compañero, Benicio, died during the break-in. House Valisti informed Adeliz that the squad resealed the tunnel upon departing._

_Payment of three thousand five hundred andris received in full._

Rinna closed the book. It was a thin ledger bound in blood-red leather. The pages were vellum, not paper. There was no text on its cover, but a faint, embossed crow talon curved on its spine. With careful reverence, she slide it toward the far corner of the desk.

She considered, for the tenth time in the past hour, how “informed Adeliz that the tunnel had been resealed” was not the same as writing “we resealed the tunnel.” It was oddly imprecise for a contract record. And what might "sealed" have meant in the first place? Collapsed and filled with dirt? A locked door?

From the desk’s near corner, she reached for Taliesen’s map. Fields and orchards unfurled before her, stretching outward like rays from a rectangular sun in the empty center of the page. A lush garden made a half-moon arch along the northern edge of the wall. Each outbuilding was labeled in an elegant hand.

Looking between the map and her copied record, Rinna had to concede that her compañeros had done exceptionally fine work. They might actually have a shot at killing this woman, provided their strategist did her part.

So where, Void take it, would an ancient siege tunnel even be?

She chewed her lip as she scoured the map. Nothing about the placement of buildings offered clues for where to begin searching. Outside the villa wall, she saw servants’ housing, sheds, a barn, a stable, and a farrier’s workshop. All were in a uniform style, constructed in the past twenty years.

She didn’t fancy the idea of their squad devoting hours to scouring the grounds. Taliesen mentioned that the estate was densely staffed: full of laborers, messengers, and unusually vigilant guards. Even under cover of darkness, he’d reported difficulty in moving around the property undetected. 

The most convenient solution would have been to ask Mansour. She knew him professionally - even worked with him, once - except he’d died six months ago when he slipped off a rooftop. Thus, the only recorded names for the previous mission belonged to dead men. 

Under other circumstances, she could ask a Valisti maestro for leads, but…

A distant scream pulled her from her thoughts. Rinna cocked her head to listen. The shout that echoed down the marble hall sounded more indignant than anguished. If the cause had been lethal, it would have cut off more abruptly. Probably someone had input the wrong sequence into the vault door, again. When no further sounds followed, she returned her attention to her work.

The copied contract, ink fully dry, joined the other notes. Now, four items sat on the desk. There was the red ledger, the leather notes folio, the map of Maranzalla’s estate, and Taliesen’s damn book. 

She reached for the book with a frown. It was a lovely, heavy thing, with press-printed pages and woodcut illustrations. Gold foil letters proclaimed its title and its author: _The Flame and the Flower_ by Diego Verragio. She flipped open the front cover and reread the hand-written note on its title page: 

_To Marquesa Maranzalla, Shepardess of Antiva City. In grateful thanks for your years of patronage._

It was unsigned. Everything about the book vexed her. It was valuable but complicated to sell. Stealing it was bold and stupid. Also, it felt like something she might have done.

She thumbed past the first page and perused the chapter titles.

“You’ve been in there for ages.” A knock resounded against the door frame. “I need to get something, but the pressure plate will trigger if there’s two people inside.”

Rinna started at the sound. She shut the book to glance over her shoulder, then blinked. “Sharwyn?”

Just outside the circular room stood a tall, pale-skinned elven woman. She had lank hair the color of honey, and was cleaning a pair of eyeglasses on her skirts with a look of nearsighted irritation. When she replaced her glasses on the bridge of her nose, an unctuous smile transformed her face. “Rinna! Still haunting the Archives?”

Rinna unfolded herself from her hunched posture, setting both her feet on the floor. The hours had flown by; her back and shoulders were stiff. “What do you want?”

Sharwyn’s voice was lilting and feminine, but her first reply was a raised eyebrow. “A book. The reason most of us come down here. Specifically, that door-stopper on old Antivan heraldry.”

“I know the one.” Rinna stood and stretched, lacing her fingers above her head. She stepped over to a section of curved shelf. Her fingers brushed cloth and leather spines before she stopped at a thick tome with cracked binding. She pulled it loose and crossed deliberately over the door’s threshold to hand it off. As she stepped out, the snakes’ light globes dimmed from sky-blue to sea-blue.

Eye-to-eye, Sharwyn stared with an open curiosity that set Rinna on edge. Rinna went on the offensive. “Forgot how to get past the vault doors?”

She was rewarded by the flash of irritation that crossed the other woman’s face. Disappointingly, Sharwyn recovered fast enough to keep her tone light. “You wouldn’t be willing to help with that, would you? I’m sure you can piece together the sequence, expert that you are.”

Rinna opened her mouth to refuse, but remembered something. She stepped back into the room. By the brightening glow of alchemical lights, she made for the desk and held up the red ledger. “If you’ll help me put this away.”

Sharwyn leaned against the door frame and sighed, somewhat theatrically. “Alright. If you insist.” 

Into her arms, Rinna gathered the ledger, the folio, the map, and Taliesen’s damn book. They departed together down a high-ceilinged hallway. The light from the room behind them dimmed from cerulean to navy, to midnight, to black.

Despite the width of the columned hall, they walked single-file, constraining their steps to a winding vein of grey in the marble floor. One wrong step to either side and the floor would withdraw beneath them, revealing a yawning pit of spikes. As Archives traps went, this one was fairly unsubtle.

A group as enduringly infamous as the Antivan Crows was bound to attract legends and rumors. One such rumor was the existence of the Crow Archives. It was said that for hundreds of years, the assassins maintained a labyrinthine underground library. In it, they kept all of their contracts, secret histories of the elite, records of business within the city, and tomes of medicine, biology, and thanatology. Most Antivans agreed that if such a place existed, neither the nobility nor the merchant princes would rest until they found it. The knowledge contained therein would be priceless. Anyone would want access without relying on the guild.

It remained a legend because without proper coaching, no one could survive more than a two minute walk inside. Just finding last year’s almanac was a potentially lethal exercise in dexterity and memorization. Some maestros avoided going inside entirely, instead preferring to send apprentices to retrieve information on their behalf. Rinna had spent a good portion of her teenage years as one of those apprentices, until navigating the Archives had become almost a sub-specialty.

Rinna watched Sharwyn’s back as they walked. A sling-shaped bag lay diagonally across the taller woman's shoulders, where she’d stowed her book on heraldry. She wore a loose-fitting tunic, vest, and skirt, all in shades of grey-green. As a nod to her Dalish parents, she rarely wore shoes, a habit Rinna used to tease her about. Their footsteps, hard-soled and bare-soled, made an echoing duet against the floor.

Sharwyn spoke without turning around. “Doing some light reading from the contracts room?”

“Research,” Rinna supplied tersely.

She could hear the affected pout in the other woman’s voice. “You’re not still angry me over that chantry job, are you?”

“Why would I be angry?” Rinna made an effort to smile. “You thought I was compromised, so you left me. You did as you were instructed.”

“Besides that was _ages_ ago. I’ve completed two contracts since then.” Now, Sharwyn did look over her shoulder. Her eyes glittered. “And you’ve had some excitement of your own, Rinna _Arainai_.”

Hot indignation flared from the flush in her cheeks to the pit of her stomach. “What, you’re just going to taunt me?”

Sharwyn returned her attention to the floor path they followed. “Taunt you? Maker, no. But I’m terribly curious.”

“Fuck off. You tell _me_ what happened. I imagine you’ve all had a great laugh around the Valisti guildhall.”

Sharwyn stopped and turned around in a swirl of skirts. Behind her glasses, she looked serious and thoughtful. “Can’t tell you a thing, compañera. I’ve been in Llomerynn for a month. I just returned to the city.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I only found out because I tried requesting you for a mission. So no, I haven’t been laughing. I have no idea what happened.”

A pause stretched between them. Then, despite herself, Rinna gave an incredulous little chuckle. “Damn. I was honestly hoping you knew something I didn’t.”

Sharwyn’s eyes went wide. “ _You_ don’t know why you were transferred?”

Rinna gestured for the two of them to keep walking. Sharwyn stayed in the lead. After a few paces, they stepped automatically, in quick succession, over a razor-thin tripwire at ankle-height.

Rinna considered her options. There were many other people she would have preferred to meet down here, but she could really use a friend in Valisti right now. Especially if she could get Sharwyn to ask a maestro about the old Maranzalla contract. 

The grey vein in the marble branched into a vee. A few paces later, the vee became a complex spiderweb of potential paths across the floor. Some were viable; most were not. Sharwyn continued forward, undeterred on her memorized route. 

For the simple pleasure of showing off, past the first branch, Rinna stepped lightly out from behind her former squadmate onto a different marble vein. She watched Sharwyn’s eyes widen with alarm behind her glasses, before she rolled them to the ceiling.

Rinna placed her feet carefully, heel-to-toe, and moved with a light dancer’s step across a route on the floor that only she could deduce. The two women continued onward side-by side.

Rinna decided to undertake the risky gambit of being entirely honest. It was made easier by the fact that she had to watch her feet and couldn’t see Sharwyn’s face.

“Here’s what I know," she began, "I haven’t taken a contract since our chantry job. Spent my time in here, mostly.” She sighed deeply, in a way she hoped conveyed her sincerity. “Two weeks ago, Maestra Yesenia told me I was going to start working for House Arainai. Only bid on Arainai contracts, only report back to their maestros. And for at least a year, only work with their squads. No jobs outside of their house.”

Sharwyn considered this. “Well, apprentices get shifted around sometimes depending on their specialties. Perhaps Arainai needed someone who knew a lot about disguises, breaking and entering, and being too clever for her own good.”

Rinna smiled wryly. “I think that’s partially true. They don’t have many young compañeros - ”

“They also get transferred if they've got a temperamental problem, better corrected under another house.” Rinna could hear the wink in Sharwyn’s voice.

Her reply was impatient. “That’s _apprentices_. Have you ever heard of a journeyman Crow being transferred?” Suddenly aware of the echo that the arched hallway lent her words, she lowered her voice. “But here’s where things get very odd. Four days ago, I tried to return to the Valisti guildhall. I still had some things in my room. But I was told I was forbidden from going back.”

“Forbidden?”

“Unambiguously. Under pain of death.” Rinna shook her head, not in negation but in confusion. “If I’d made some mistake, I’d expect to be hurt or killed for it. Not transferred, you know?” She frowned. “I asked an Arainai maestra about it, but she was vague to the point of being obtuse.”

“So it’s house politics,” Sharwyn said darkly.

“Must be. But I can’t figure how.”

“Well, how are you adjusting to life among the cuchillos?”

Rinna thought fondly of her current squadmates. “I’m getting used to it.”

At last, they reached the end of their marble paths. The hallway opened into a grand atrium. Its barrel-vaulted ceiling was a swirling, dusky navy. Across it, gold leaf traced the patterns of constellations in the summer night sky. A few were rendered in artistic detail: a ship, a lyre, an owl in flight. Inset light globes took the places of major stars. 

Imposing, carved-serpent columns lined the walls. Between these stood shelves of books and curiosities. There were articulated skeletons of animals, artifacts from old dwarven thaigs, and storied blades still sharp enough to kill, kept behind glass cabinets. Most shelves groaned beneath the weight of heavy tomes. The air in the atrium had a particular smell: the musty vanilla of old books, mixed with the faint copper of old blood. It always made Rinna nostalgic.

Hallways branched off from open door frames to their left and right. On the far end of the room loomed an enormous, circular brass door. A trio of huge snakes cast in brass rose up from beneath the floor and coiled around the door’s arched shape. Their open mouths pointed threateningly toward anyone standing to work the round lock set in the center.

Sharwyn glanced toward this tableau. “I don’t suppose you’ll help me with the vault first?”

“Not a chance. Contracts first.” Rinna led the way through a door flanked by two suits of ancient Grey Warden armor. Probably left over from the Fourth Blight. She hoped vaguely that the Crows had scavenged these, rather than acquired them through murder. It seemed in poor taste to assassinate Grey Wardens.

This hallway was narrower than the one they’d come from. Torches flickered ahead, sending the womens’ long shadows stretching behind them. A line of amber glass tiles was set into the stone at shoulder-height. The smell of fumes wafted thick in the air.

The torches’ reflections glittered across the tiles, as well as upon the oil-filled gutters on either side. If an errant ember fell, heavy doors on either end of the hallway would shut. The two of them would be cooked in the ensuing conflagration.

Rinna shuffled the items she carried under one arm, then held out a gentle hand to stop Sharwyn in place. She traced her fingers along a section of the wall, searching for a series of tiles that had raised grooves instead of smooth faces. Her questing fingers found what she sought: seven lined tiles, a darker shade of orange than the ones on either side.

Rinna glanced over with a smile. “Which one’s first?”

The firelight danced in Sharwyn’s glasses. She looked just a little nervous. “Isn’t that your job?”

“Do you _want_ a torch to fall off the wall? You don’t know this one?”

“Maybe not.”

“Ah, compañera, what would you do without me?” Rinna touched the first tile with two fingers. It recessed into the wall. She counted seconds under her breath, then touched the fourth.

Sharwyn continued speaking while Rinna worked. “I already told you I wanted you on my next mission. Not my fault you got yourself transferred.” She seemed to remember something. “Why did you have personal items in the Valisti guildhall, anyway? Thought you lived with that Kirkwall woman you were bedding.”

Rinna’s breath caught and she lost her place in the sequence. A dreadful pause stretched before she remembered which came next. She pressed the remaining tiles in deliberate, exasperated succession. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“What, she dumped you?”

Rinna resumed walking. She feigned indifference, mostly successfully. “Disappointing, but she was starting to ask questions about my work. I think she was getting a little too attached. It was for the best.”

“Well, I’m sorry she dumped you,” Sharwyn said, mostly sincere. “Time to find yourself a likely lass or lad with the Gilded Lilies and work through your frustration.”

“You’re probably right.” This was _not_ a topic on which Rinna wanted to be forthcoming. She sought to change the subject. “So what were you doing in Llomerynn?”

“Some merchant prince uncovered a king’s bastard hiding out there, and I had to go kill him. Another elf-blooded fellow. Our royal highness seems to have had a thing for elves in his youth.” 

“Must be running low on bastards if they think the elves have a shot at inheriting.” Rinna stopped her again with a hand. A moment later, she’d begun searching the wall for the next set of grooved tiles. The heavy scent of oil was starting to leave her a little faint. They needed to clear this hallway faster, but there was a fixed amount of time she had to wait between each tile press.

Sharwyn continued. “Poor man was on his way out already. Assassinating him was probably a mercy. He was in an advanced stage of leprosy. Could barely recognize his face.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine, having a leper for a king?”

Rinna stuck her tongue between her teeth as she worked. Silence stretched on as she waited between the last few presses of tiles. When the seventh depressed, and no torch tipped off the wall, they resumed walking.

“I dunno,” Rinna said mildly. “It’s the guildmasters’ faces on the money. I’m not sure I could pick the king out of a lineup. If he was well enough to scrawl his name on things and give speeches from balconies, I’m not sure it would matter if he were a leper or not.”

“Or an elf, evidently.” Sharwyn’s voice sounded a little faint. She must have been lightheaded, as well. 

They both moved quickly down the rest of the hallway, and were grateful when it finally opened up into a high-ceilinged antechamber. They paused together to catch their breath.

A stone door loomed before them: an arched slab of swirling obsidian. It had no locks, hinges, or handle. Set into the wall beside it was a cast brass disc bearing a stylized crow’s claw. It was twin to the symbol on the ledger Rinna carried.

The Archives’ traps were the mechanical ingenuity of dwarves and humans, except for the contracts room. This door alone was magical, held in place by an ancient spell. One that both women knew well.

Rinna placed her stack of books on the floor just beside the door. She pulled off her left glove and tucked it into her tunic belt.

Sharwyn was rolling up her sleeves. “How were you planning to return your ledger if I hadn’t come by?”

Rinna shrugged. “Would have wandered around until I found someone else. That’s what I did in the first place.” She tugged a stiletto from the sheath in her boot, as well as a strip of linen. Faded, rusty spots marred the fabric.

She touched the point of her knife to her index finger. The blade pulled a bead of blood from beneath her skin. It fell on the linen and bloomed outward. She turned the stiletto in a deft movement so she held the steel between two fingers and the handle outstretched. 

Sharwyn took both knife and fabric, before pricking her own finger. She met Rinna’s eyes. “Are you ready?”

Rinna reached down for the red ledger and held it against her chest. She nodded.

Sharwyn pressed the bloody linen against the brass seal. The crow’s claw lit up with the bright blue of lyrium. The stone door dropped down into the floor with a resonant boom. A hiss followed from inside the chamber. 

It was not an especially large space. After a stretch of empty floor, the back wall contained only seven stone shelves, each a little taller than Rinna. Red light globes hung from the ceiling, dim to prevent fading ink. There was a heaviness to the air. Each shelf held the stories of hundreds of murders, each one someone’s tragedy and someone else’s triumph.

There were also four corpses on the floor between the door and the shelves. Rinna knew them like old acquaintances, or like landmarks. Each wore the clothes of a different decade, perfectly preserved, along with their expressions of surprise, consternation, or anger. Crows whose partners didn’t do their part - either by negligence or deliberate betrayal.

One person’s blood alone wouldn’t open the door. Sharwyn would have to keep the linen pressed against the seal the entire time Rinna was inside, or the door would shut.

The moment the door closed, the chamber would fill with an alchemical gas that protected vellum from decay. It also petrified the circulatory system, causing swift death to anyone who inhaled it. This came with the eerie side-effect of preserving corpses.

Rinna stepped inside the contracts chamber. The hair on her arms stood on end. She could feel Sharwyn’s eyes on her as she walked around one of the bodies, back toward the shelves. 

She’d misliked this room since she was a teenager. Not for the dead bodies or the weight of ages, but because she hated being dependent on another person. Of relying on one of her fellow Crows in such an immediate, vulnerable way. Sharwyn had no particular reason to kill her. Between them were the petty dramas of children who’d grown up together, and of adults who’d worked side-by-side. Yet the fear always lingered. What if? _What if?_

One shelf had a conspicuous gap. The only item out of place in this frozen, timeless space. Rinna went to it. With a shaking hand, she slid the ledger back into place. Although she was ready to run, she forced herself to turn slowly and walk back outside. Three steps away, then two, then both her feet were across the threshold.

Sharwyn lifted the bloody cloth from the seal. The obsidian door slammed upward from floor to ceiling. From within, they heard the hiss of returning gas. Rinna shuddered, despite herself. 

In a moment of surprising delicacy, her compañera made no comment. She handed back the cloth by two fingers, as well as the stiletto. She watched Rinna collect up her other items from the floor. It was at that point that she noticed something, blinding behind her glasses.

“Don’t you have to put back that one, too?” Sharwyn was peering to look at her pile. “You’re not arrogant enough to try to take a book above ground, are you?”

“Ah, this one’s from outside. It’s my problem.” Rinna shifted self-consciously to move the manuscript to the bottom of the stack. 

Delight transformed Sharwyn’s face when she got a glimpse of the cover. “Maker’s fucking breath, is that a Verragio? Your Kirkwall girl _has_ left you in a bad way.”

Rinna grit her teeth. “Would you believe me if I said this was for work?”

“I would not.”

They passed once more through the torchlit hallway. Their journey back into the atrium was uneventful, except for Sharwyn pointedly asking questions about the plot and characters of _The Flame and the Flower_. Rinna did not deign to answer.

Stepping beneath the star-studded ceiling, they made their way to the far end of the atrium. The shelves of books and curiosities thinned. The floor before the vault door was empty flagstones. No shelves lined the walls on either side. There was only the round brass door and the enormous brass serpents.

The open-mouthed snakes seemed to regard the assassins impudently as they approached. This close, it was easy to spot the metal tubes protruding from the back of their throats. Above ground, these might be eccentric fountains. Here, it was poison and not water they’d expectorate.

In the center of the door, the lock gleamed. It was a series of complex, concentric dials resembling an astrolabe. Fine brass wheels were etched with symbols for days, months, weather, and the positions of the moons and constellations. Each of these wheels was set to a null symbol, aligned in a row from the outermost circle to the innermost.

Rinna carefully set her items outside of the flagstone circle. She gestured Sharwyn forward with a little bow. “I want to see what you did wrong the first time.”

Sharwyn leaned her willowy body before the door. As she began adjusting the circles, she persisted with ruthless cheer. “What job does Arainai have you on that you’re reading romance novels?”

Rinna rolled her eyes. “The connection is tedious to explain - ”

“Convenient.”

“ - but I’m leading a squad to kill Marquesa Adeliz Maranzalla.”

Sharwyn looked up from the lock, disbelieving. “I’m sure you’ll make very amusing target practice for her guards atop those walls.”

Rinna frowned, her pride wounded despite the obvious joke. But this was the conversational opening she’d hoped for. She felt the gentle adrenaline of making a difficult request. “Actually, I wondered if - what are you _doing?”_

Sharwyn looked up again. “This is the sequence I’d used last week.”

“You can’t use the sequence you used last week!” Rinna spoke as if lecturing a child. “It’s calculated based on the present day. Isn’t the ceiling a big enough hint?”

“Compañera - it is _not.”_

“Just let me do it.” Rinna pushed her aside with a hip and reset all the dials back to their starting positions.

She began with the outermost circle - the position of the larger moon at the current time of day. Normally, she needed thirty minutes outside with a sextant and sheet of parchment, but she’d been in the vault at about the same time for the last three days. Thus, a bit of mental math could adjust for the shift.

Setting the month, day, dominant constellation, and other trivialities were automatic. She spoke as she worked. “There was another contract at Maranzalla’s estate. Mansour Valisti - remember him? Of course you do - had his bid accepted. Apparently, his squad found an old siege tunnel under the wall. I’m sure one of our maestros remembers something about it…” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sharwyn cross her arms over her chest.

Her reply was level. “Sorry, Rinna, but as far as Valisti maestros are concerned, I’m going to pretend you don’t exist. I’d prefer not to step in whatever you stepped in.”

Rinna tried a new tactic. “I’d say you owe me one after you left me for dead during the chantry job.” 

“I thought you said you weren’t angry about that.”

“I didn’t say that, actually.” With her left hand, Rinna grabbed Sharwyn’s wrist. She was prepared for her compañera’s elbow twist to free herself, and worked with that momentum to pin her arm against her side. Rinna kept her right hand lightly against the door.

“Incidentally,” Rinna said, while Sharwyn continued to struggle, “I’ve just set this sequence a _bit_ off. The poison won’t kill us, but it’ll be a really foul-smelling spray. Also, if you’re unlucky, you might have an allergic reaction.” Her eyes glittered. “So if you don’t agree to ask about this tunnel, I’ll set the last dial.”

“Won’t you get hit, too?” Sharwyn squirmed, but Rinna’s grip was vicelike and her angle was advantageous.

“Worth it.” Rinna shrugged. “My work in here is done. I’m headed out anyway. But I get the feeling you really need something in there, so you’ll have to wait around to find someone else to open the door for you. While you smell like an idiot.”

“This is a bluff.”

Rinna raised an eyebrow. “Want to call it?”

She watched irritation and consternation wage a battle across Sharwyn’s face, which was really its own reward. The taller woman’s eyes flicked upward to the brass snakes, far more impartial in their justice than her capricious friend.

“Fine,” Sharwyn said with a snarl. “I’ll ask around about the old Maranzalla mission and this fucking tunnel.” 

“Our word is our bond,” Rinna said solemnly.

“Our word is our bond.” Sharwyn rubbed her wrist when Rinna released it. She grumbled, “It’s a pity you have to go all the way inside and can’t just rain snake venom down on her.”

Rinna had begun fiddling with the circles again, but stopped abruptly. She spoke slowly, “It is, isn’t it?” 

Her hand was steady when she resumed turning the dials, but inside, she’d begun buzzing. Fragments of an idea were falling into place.

What if they could send something else inside that could kill Maranzalla… something she wanted very badly and would eagerly take without bothering to closely examine it… 

Rinna set the final circle and depressed the brass disc in the center. A series of clicks echoed throughout the atrium. The enormous door swung open on silent hinges.

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?” Sharwyn said, a bit fondly.

Rinna kissed her cheek. “I know how terribly you miss working with me, so I’m glad to give you this opportunity to help.” 

She gave Sharwyn the address of Zevran and Taliesen’s apartment. They arranged to meet again in a week. 

Rinna left the Archives' atrium through a column-flanked door. She looked over her shoulder to see her compañera doing the same, standing just inside the vault. The expression on her pale face was hard to read.

Rinna comforted herself as she made her way out. At least now, information from the old mission was a failsafe. With any luck, she wouldn’t need to know a damn thing about the tunnel. She finally had her plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rinna's bisexuality is foreshadowed by her inability to sit in chairs correctly.
> 
> Alternate chapter title, "Yeah, I read 'The Silent Grove' once."
> 
> WOW this chapter turned out twice as long as I intended. An exposition-heavy section full of video game-y traps was very challenging to write, but damn it was fun. I’m delighted to report that next up is our first truly horny chapter since the beginning.


	9. Clean Sweat and Polished Leather

Taliesen awoke to a soft scratching sound. He stirred beneath his sheets and opened his eyes, blinking against the warm afternoon light.

His focus settled on Zevran, who sat at the table in the center of Taliesen’s one-room apartment. He held a stiff-bristled brush in one hand and a sword belt in the other. The rich smell of leather polish wafted from an open jar. Zevran was absorbed in his task, buffing section-by-section until the belt’s leather shone. 

For a few minutes, Taliesen simply watched him: the deft movement of his hands, the way the tendons flexed in his forearm, his look of thoughtful concentration. Not for the first time, Taliesen wondered how his childhood friend had grown up to be so intolerably handsome.

A breeze from the open window ruffled Zevran's hair. He absently tucked the loose strands behind his ear. This drew Taliesen’s attention to the fresh layer of linen pinned in place from lobe to pointed tip. Evidently, the frost-burn hadn’t healed enough for open air. A feeling between guilt and anger twisted in his stomach. 

To tamp it down, he broke the silence. “Have you finally learned to pick locks?”

“I practice diligently, you know.” Zevran looked up at him, flashing a smile. “But this time, you simply forgot to latch your door.”

Taliesen’s chuckle was little more than a soft exhale. “I was exhausted.”

“I don’t recall our strategist asking you to spend four nights at the Maranzalla estate.”

“As if I’d give less than my best.” Taliesen yawned, then sat up in bed. As he stretched his arms above his head, the sheets slid off his bare chest. He was pleased to note the way Zevran’s eyes followed the motion.

He dropped his arms, careful with the angle of his still-bandaged hand, and leaned back against the headboard. “Where’s Rinna?”

“On her way, I imagine. I had hoped to wake you in time for our rendezvous.” Zevran set down the brush to begin coiling the belt around his hand.

“Thanks. And - Maker, thanks.” He realized that it was _his_ gear Zevran had been working on. Taking care of equipment was a necessary bother. Leather had to be kept strong but flexible, waterproofed and protected from cracking. Polishing would have been a bitch to attempt one-handed.

Zevran gave a magnanimous shrug. His task finished, he stood and crossed the room. Taliesen drew up his legs to make space, and Zevran sat beside him on the edge of the bed. From his new angle, Taliesen couldn’t help but notice the prominent love bite darkening his friend’s neck.

“Sorry to see you’ve sustained further injuries,” he remarked. At Zevran’s puzzled expression, Taliesen tapped his own neck with two fingers.

Zevran’s face split into a grin of recognition. “Ahh, that. Of course, ours is a perilous profession. Full of uncountable dangers.”

“Glad your bed wasn’t cold while I was tossing and turning in a hayloft,” Taliesen said, a little sourly. “And baking in midday heat on rooftops. And killing an overly observant guard.”

Zevran’s smile turned impish as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I heard about that, actually. From Maranzalla’s steward. Who, after two glasses of wine, told me some fascinating things about her employer. And may also have mentioned her interest in being tied up in compromising positions by a handsome sailor.”

Taliesen barked a laugh. “Well done.” He leaned forward to squeeze Zevran’s shoulder, somewhere between companionable and flirtatious. When Zevran leaned into his touch, Taliesen shifted his grip to press his thumb against the muscle in his upper back, rubbing a tight circle.

He muttered, “You’ve got the ‘bedding beautiful people’ specialty, and you’re still this tense?” He shifted again to roll the heel of his hand along the same spot.

Zevran made a small, appreciative grunt against the pressure. “My companion’s bed was too small for two to sleep comfortably. I might have preferred your hayloft.”

Taliesen tugged brusquely on the other man's tunic. “Off.”

“Your clever plan to even up our removed clothing?” Slowly and with deliberate eye contact, Zevran reached one hand to the back of his neck and pulled the fabric forward over his head.

Shirtless Zevran was a blessing, every time. The tawny brown expanse of his chest. The elegant line of his collar. As he turned away - the swirling black tattoos that curved from his left shoulder down his spine, drawing down to a tapered waist. And the bones of his hips, just visible above the waistband of -

“Did you simply wish to admire me, or were you serious about your offer?”

Taliesen gave him a good-natured shove. He drew himself up so he was sitting cross-legged, settling his right hand with fingers and thumb on either side of Zevran’s spine. He began kneading with firm, confident pressure. From the tension singing under his hand, and the happy sighs he immediately coaxed forth, a massage was much needed.

“So I take it your reconnaissance was productive,” Taliesen said as he worked.

“Persuasion is one of my natural gifts. Every Crow has a few. Yours include,” Zevran ticked them off on his fingers, “masterful swordsmanship, keen eye for detail, very strong hands - ”

“The patience of Andraste,” Taliesen offered.

“Yes! And although untrained as a conversationalist, I would attest to your silver tongue - ”

Taliesen chuckled. His hand slid up from rhomboid to trapezius. With thumb resting against the back of Zevran’s neck, he worked the muscle at the front of his shoulder with calloused finger pads. “So Maranzalla’s steward was one night. What did you learn the other three nights?”

“Other three nights? You must be joking.” Zevran exhaled in a hiss at the release of a stubborn knot. “I spent a day tailing different members of her staff to select someone to approach. Then I had to find an appropriate meeting place, to construct a cover story that was interesting enough to capture attention, but not so implausible that it would arouse suspicion - ”

“So what you’re saying is, you only worked reconnaissance one night to my four.” It was his usual coarse teasing, but internally, Taliesen felt a flutter of anxiety. They had to do better than this. They couldn’t afford any missed details or opportunities. This mission needed everything they could give, then a little more.

Zevran kept his voice light, in a way Taliesen had learned to recognize was deliberate. “It is possible to work hard without martyring oneself, my friend.”

“I haven’t martyred myself.”

“But you were tired enough to make a mistake. Or did you kill that guard merely for your own amusement?”

Taliesen’s hand stilled, tan fingers splayed against a brown shoulder. “You were _nonchalant_ enough to take four nights to do one night’s work. And I’m sure your selection of a target had nothing to do with how attractive she was.”

“When it comes to the application of my talents, has it occurred to you that I simply enjoy having a choice?” Zevran spoke casually, but the remark made Taliesen go cold. 

He knew there had been marked differences in their apprenticeships. How could it be otherwise? A pretty elven boy who used charm to evade conflict, and a lanky human boy who picked fights with anyone who looked at him wrong. But during the last two years they’d been apart, their lessons had diverged sharply. Whatever training in seduction entailed, Taliesen imagined that personal preferences about _who, when,_ and _how_ didn’t feature prominently. Zevran didn’t talk about it. In fairness, Taliesen didn’t talk about using their fellow apprentices’ corpses for anatomy lessons.

Zevran shrugged the hand from his shoulder and turned so they faced each other. His amber eyes were thoughtful. The mood had gone too sober. In typical fashion, he sought to lighten it.

“A choice in several respects,” he said softly, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He settled his hand on Taliesen’s knee, although a layer of sheets and trousers prevented skin contact.

Taliesen was in no mood to be mollified by flirtation. His frown deepened. “Maybe we get a choice in the length of the leash they keep us on. But we _make_ that choice by working hard.”

“We’re not apprentices any longer, Taliesen.” Zevran’s fingers inched imperceptibly higher and he squeezed. His friend wasn’t the only one with strong hands. “Surely we’re permitted some balance of work and pleasure. After all, life is short.”

“Life is hard,” Taliesen said grimly. “Only gets easier once you’re on top.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “If that’s all you’re after, you know I’m more than happy to oblige.”

Taliesen felt himself flush, but anger won out over chagrin. “Are you even taking this job seriously?”

“Of course.” At last, a flicker of real irritation behind Zevran’s eyes. “But after all we've been through, why shouldn’t pleasure be something I take seriously, as well?” Their faces were close and his gaze was level. “Tell me Leonora hasn't got you afraid.”

Taliesen bristled. “We’re the best Crows House Arainai has produced in a generation. What would I be afraid of?”

“Exactly my point.”

They regarded each other for a tense moment. Then Zevran reached out to run his knuckles along the line of Taliesen’s jaw. It was too tender to be suggestive. Something about the motion made Taliesen’s gut ache.

Zevran spoke softly. “I am under no illusions about the nature of our cage. But we mustn’t forget, it can be a gilded one. Many in this city have tougher lives than you or I.” He moved his hand up to the back of Taliesen’s neck, fingers curling in his dark hair. “I truly believe nothing our maestros do cages us more surely than our own servile behavior. Or if we harm ourselves through overwork.”

His meaning was obvious. Although he was wrong, of course. 

Taliesen swallowed his frustration like a hot coal. Killing Maranzalla’s guard _hadn’t_ been an overworked mistake - it was a necessary sacrifice to get the book. He hated being reprimanded by the man who’d convinced him to fool around in the master bedroom of their latest mark. He also hated how easily he’d been convinced.

He would continue to prod Zevran to pull his weight in this mission. But Taliesen sought an end to this particular conversation.

He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the feeling of a hand in his hair. Then he leaned forward, testing something. He watched Zevran’s eyes flutter closed, the shape of his mouth soften.

Taliesen laughed as he pulled back. He made his voice rough and teasing. “That was a lot of pretty words for someone just hoping to kiss me.”

Zevran blinked, his brows forming a little crease of contemplation. Taliesen wondered if he'd press his original point, but the expression passed in a second.

The elf acquiesced with a shrug and a smile. “And here I thought I’d nearly succeeded.”

“I know you practice that sort of thing.”

Distantly, it occurred to Taliesen that his friend might genuinely worry for him. Perhaps he flirted less to mollify and more because he thought pleasure might be an antidote to Taliesen's unease. That was endearing, if hilariously naive. The only things that would make him feel better were killing their mark and repaying their debt as expediently as possible. But - 

_A choice in several respects,_ Zevran had said.

They’d chosen so little about their lives. One day, Taliesen knew, power and possibility would flow from his fingertips and from every cut of his daggers. Yet here and now, Zevran had chosen him, as a friend and a lover. That was worth something.

Zevran’s fingers hadn’t moved from his hair. Slowly, Taliesen reached out to press his thumb against the bruise on his neck.

“So Maranzalla’s steward managed this while tied up?” he asked, deliberately conversational, even as he felt Zevran’s breath catch beneath his hand.

“Well, it was a bit before that,” he replied wryly. “We enjoyed a long evening.”

“Sounds like quite a story.” Taliesen closed the distance between them until he could feel the heat from Zevran’s bare chest. He spoke his next words against a pointed ear. “I admit, I’m looking forward to a briefing on the sordid details of your investigation.”

He heard the smirk in Zevran’s voice. “For purely professional reasons, of course.”

“Something like that.”

When Zevran turned his head, Taliesen could no longer resist kissing him. Their lips met in a rough, hungry moment. Taliesen ran a hand up to cup his face, while Zevran’s fingers tightened in his hair.

The bed was flush against a wall. With a shift of their bodies, Taliesen had the smaller man's shoulders pressed against the stone, Zevran nearly grinning through their kiss. 

Wherever Taliesen pushed, Zevran relaxed to move with him. He leaned into the calloused palm against his cheek. His mouth opened under the urgent kiss. He was languid and unhurried as he traced his fingers down the flat plane of Taliesen’s stomach.

The easy movements spurred Taliesen’s intensity. He moved his head down to scrape teeth and stubble against Zevran’s bruised neck.

“You know," Zevran remarked, a little breathlessly, "I'm beginning to believe you like thinking of me with other people.”

Taliesen chuckled against his skin. “What if I did? Not like this would work if I was the jealous type.” He closed his mouth against the bruise, and any response Zevran might have made was lost to the low groan at the back of his throat.

Zevran's skin tasted like clean sweat, with the faintest trace of leather polish. Taliesen drug his lips down from throat to collar. When he closed his mouth around a nipple, Zevran's breath caught on his friend's name. The sound of it, impatient with desire and affection, went straight between Taliesen’s legs. 

Their next kiss was fierce. On reflex, Taliesen brought up his other hand to pull Zevran down onto the bed.

He winced when his bandaged fingers impeded the motion. The feel of rough linen jarred them both. 

They pulled apart, breathing heavily. Zevran’s hair was mussed, his full lips glistened, his cheeks and the tip of his ear were flushed, he was so beautiful - and this was so stupid. It was worse than a distraction, it was a disaster waiting to happen. If they were ever found out, their maestros would make them pray for death -

Zevran had an uncanny ability to keep his smile light, even when his eyes went serious. He said softly, “You know, we can always put things on hold, if you wish it. No harm done.”

Taliesen wondered what his own expression betrayed, to make Zevran offer those words. The phrasing was open to interpretation. _On hold_ in this particular moment, or _on hold_ for the indefinite future?

Gazing at his friend, shirtless and sweating and pressed against a wall, Taliesen couldn't bring himself to wish for either option. He could still choose a _few_ things for himself.

Left hand limp at his side, Taliesen splayed his right in the center of Zevran’s chest, applying enough pressure to guide him downward to settle against the pillows. Zevran’s smile reached his eyes again by the time Taliesen swung one leg over him, his knees on either side of the elf's thighs. He leaned down onto his elbows until their hips ground together. Despite the interruption, Taliesen smirked to find Zevran as achingly eager as himself. Their mouths were a breath apart.

“What I wish,” Taliesen growled, punctuated by a lazy roll of his hips, “is for an uninterrupted hour with you, until I get you loud enough to remind everyone in this apartment what my name is.”

Beneath him, Zevran made a sound between a purr and a moan. “How I pity our long-suffering neighbors,” he murmured. “But I would love to see you try, _Taliesen_.” 

The whispered name was a challenge. Taliesen leaned down to kiss him again, but it was Zevran who caught his lip between his teeth.

Taliesen's groan was cut short by the sound of three quick knocks. They broke their kiss and listened, frozen in place.

“Did you lock the door when you came in?” Taliesen muttered.

“I did not.”

Zevran was mid-apology when Rinna pushed open the door. Taliesen fumbled to maneuver himself up to sitting. With only one usable hand, his scrabbling was reminiscent of a cat trying to right itself mid-air.

When he was finally upright, Rinna hadn't moved from the doorway. She held a stack of books and papers against her chest. Her lips were pressed into a flat line that might have been displeasure, or might have been barely contained mirth. Taliesen watched her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath through her nose.

“I’ll give you sixty seconds to get dressed and compose yourselves, and then I’m coming back inside.”

She closed the door.

Taliesen’s mortified stammering was silenced when Zevran pulled him back down. They wasted twenty seconds on a final, filthy kiss. Then there was a whispered flurry of clothing and bedsheets, and of willing their blood to return from other body parts back to their brains.

When the door opened again, Zevran was back at the table, with Taliesen seated on the side of his bed. Rinna bustled inside without preamble. She moved straight to the table to set down her stack of papers. Taliesen recognized the spine of the book he’d stolen.

"Sorry I'm late," she said simply. "Got a little side-tracked in the Archives."

“Glad you found the apartment again.” Zevran looked totally unabashed. “I admit, I was beginning to worry you had gotten lost.”

She ignored him, cheerfully and resolutely. She pulled out another chair at the table and turned it so it faced backwards, then sat down with an unceremonious plop. “Alright, compañeros. Let’s talk strategy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Idylleigh.
> 
> Some bitter irony to the fact that we’re both invested in convincing this elf assassin that he’s worthy of love and happiness, but it can be pretty hard to convince ourselves, sometimes. Sad to see you go. Whether in a week or in a year, hope to hear from you again :)


	10. A Week and a Day, Part 1

Another cloudless afternoon warmed the terraced hills of the Villa Maranzalla. There was no breeze to cut the heat, but mercifully, no humidity to curdle the air.

The empty stable was silent as a grave. Which, Zevran reflected, it had become - at least for one unfortunate guard.

In the week since Taliesen’s stint on the grounds, someone had removed the guard’s body, scrubbed the dirt floor, brought in fresh sawdust, and replaced the broken ladder rung. When Zevran had climbed up into the hayloft, he’d noted the new wood dowel under his hand.

Dust motes danced in a shaft of sunlight from the loft’s high window.

Shadowed on three sides by towering bales of hay, Zevran sat cross-legged before an upturned crate. A small kit box rested atop it. At first glance, the box contained various carving tools like chisels, gouges and files. These were affixed to a tray, which had been removed to reveal the box’s false bottom. Below that, a stranger series of objects lay nestled in unspun cotton: small but sturdy glass vials, waxed packages of herbs, measuring spoons, and an alchemical matchbook.

Despite the clear sky, the hayloft held the sharp smell that preceded a rainstorm. Its source was the thimble-sized chunk of resin that Zevran was grinding against a file. Oily, amber powder dusted down onto a piece of cardstock.

He worked slowly and deliberately. Thick gloves limited his dexterity; a small price to pay to eliminate any risk of touching the substance he held. The layers of quilted cloth and leather were less reminiscent of the gloves he donned for swordplay than the gloves smiths used to work hot iron. Old scorch marks added to the effect.

His ear itched, but he didn’t dare scratch it. Recently unbandaged, it itched a lot of the time. The skin was shiny, pink-brown, and mottled like woodgrain. It looked interesting and a bit dashing - especially with the earring. When he’d found the lobe still numb, his nerve damage probably permanent, the decision to pierce it had come naturally. The earring itself had been an obvious choice: a memento from his first mission. Once again, he prided himself on his ability to make the best out of unpleasant moments.

Atop the cardstock, the amber powder had formed a mound no larger than the nail on his little finger. Zevran slipped the chunk of resin back into a waxed drawstring pouch, which he bundled in heavy cloth alongside the stained file. The cloth-wrapped objects went back into the bottom of the box.

Next, he bent the cardstock with two gloved fingers. He used the shape to funnel the dust into a fist-sized glass jar filled with a transparent, viscous medium. The dust hit the liquid and blossomed downward in an amber cloud. Zevran admired it for a moment, then set it down to draw a smaller vial from the box. Two deliberate drops changed the concoction from sunset-orange to milky-yellow. He sealed the mixture and shook it gently with his thumb over the cork. The final traces of color dissipated. From appearance alone, the jar contained pure water. He opened it once more and set it atop the crate.

From beside his knee, Zevran picked up a hard-bound novel. “Taliesen’s damn book,” as Rinna had christened it. He held its spine in his gloved left hand. The final tool he drew from his kit was a delicate, fan-shaped paintbrush. He dipped the brush inside the jar and tapped it against the glass lip. Barely a drop of the liquid clung to the bristles when he swept them over the edge of the book’s pages. The paper didn’t saturate; it hardly darkened. 

Returning to fill his brush, he worked section-by-section to coat each of the books edges: the pages, the spine, the corners of the binding. Finally, he traced the looping gold letters spelling its ridiculous title: _The Flame and the Flower._

A soft dove’s call sounded from the rooftop: Taliesen’s signal. Zevran glanced over his shoulder to the square of sunlight on the loft’s planks. It had barely moved since he’d taken up his position. Rinna was early.

His face twisted into a little smile as he returned to his work. Just his luck that he’d have _two_ overeager squadmates. Clearly, they needed a mellowing influence. One who was handsome and good with his hands wouldn’t hurt, either.

Once the book was resin-coated to his satisfaction, Zevran folded a sheet of parchment around it, neatly creasing the edges as if wrapping a gift. The final step was to bundle the package into a square of sturdy, fawn-brown oilcloth. Zevran cautiously shook his hands free of his gloves, letting each fall onto the planks. No risk of residue transferring from the inside of the package to the outside. After the watertight fabric was in place, he relaxed a fraction.

Delicately, and a bit fondly, he tied a silk ribbon around the package, a deeper brown than the oilcloth. Beneath this, he slipped a folded letter. The envelope looked expensive even at a glance. The creamy paper was fine-grained and heavy. Violet ink slashed crisp lines without any bleeding. Taliesen had done a remarkable job of forging high-born handwriting: an ostentatious flourish on two capital M’s, and a middle Z dipping down in a lightning-quick loop.

“Any problems?”

Zevran exhaled softly through his nose - as close as he came to startling. Under his breath, he replied, “None, save your impatience.”

He got to his feet with the package in hand, then stepped out from behind his fortress of hay. He glanced over the edge of the loft. Even though the signal had been for Rinna, even though it was her voice that cut through the silence, staring down at the woman in the stable, he couldn’t help but blink in surprise.

Rinna wore emerald green hose and a matching doublet, each with accents of gold. It was no cheap costume; the ensemble fit well enough that it must have been tailored for her. Her shirt was close at her wrists even as it puffed at the sleeves. She wore a floppy, feathered cap that covered her hair, but also hid the tips of her ears. She’d applied cosmetics to deemphasize her cheek bones and the shape of her eyes. The combined effect erased any trace of elven ancestry. She looked like the kind of servant he’d only seen on jobs that brought him in proximity to royalty.

Zevran descended the ladder and crossed the dirt floor. As he drew close enough to hand off the package, he realized the heel of Rinna’s boots made her slightly taller than him.

“I admit, I’m impressed,” he said softly. “I don’t remember you mentioning disguise as one of your areas of expertise.”

Rinna shrugged, but looked pleased with herself. “Well, when your specialty’s ‘strategy,’ that often amounts to ‘jack of all trades.’”

“Master of none?”

“Pretty damn good at a couple of things, actually.” She took the book from him and turned to go. At the stable’s back door, she paused to speak over her shoulder. “Once you see me come back, wait another hour before you leave the grounds.”

He felt his smile widen in proportion to hers. He couldn’t help it. “I know. And Taliesen stays until nightfall.”

She gave a single, satisfied nod before she stepped out into the sunshine.

* * *

“So can you do it?” Rinna asked. “Create a poison that works through skin contact alone?” 

Zevran sat across from her at the table in Taliesen’s apartment. Between them heaped a haphazard stack of papers, most tucked into a bulging leather folio. A weighty, hard-bound book rested at the pile’s base.

The third in their trio sat on the edge of his bed, looking less flustered and more thoughtful by the minute. Zevran noted, with some amusement, that in Taliesen’s haste to get dressed he’d misaligned the buttons on his shirt. It hung slightly askew across his chest, with an empty hole at the collar and an extra button at the bottom.

Fighting the urge to smirk, Zevran returned his attention to Rinna. “I imagine you’re looking for something immediately lethal, yes? Ruling out anything lingering, or anything that requires a few hours to take effect.”

She nodded. “Even a few minutes might be too long. We can’t allow Maranzalla time to figure out what’s happened and try for an antidote. We won’t get more than one shot at this.”

“And nothing must look out of place or arouse her suspicion,” Zevran mused. “No packets of powder that tear once the book opens - that sort of thing could be felt from the outside.”

“That’s right. We need something invisible. Odorless, too.” Rinna had pulled out an argento coin and was walking it across her knuckles. Keeping her hands busy seemed to help her think. “You understand my difficulty, here.”

Zevran sifted through a mental catalog of toxins: animal, herbal, and mineral. The majority of poisons had to enter the body through a victim’s nose or mouth. Or a wound. But there were options. “Mancinella resin can kill through touch alone. And such a thing could be rendered undetectable, although the process would make it, shall we say - volatile. Quickly diminishing in effectiveness. It would need to be prepared on-site for the potency we’d require.”

A scar bisected the eyebrow she quirked at him. An unexpected thrill warmed Zevran’s stomach like wine. She asked, “Could you work on the grounds if Taliesen kept watch?”

“In light of my considerable charms, perhaps you assume all my training was dedicated to social finesse. But I assure you, I am a capable poisoner.”

“Let me make sure I understand.” Taliesen’s dry baritone cut them off. “You’re just going to give the book back?”

Rinna glanced over at him. “I thought you’d be pleased your impetuous theft could serve some greater purpose.”

“Selling it to make a dent in our debt _was_ its greater purpose.”

Rinna’s coin stilled between her fingers. With a flick of her thumb, she sent it sailing in the air toward him. Taliesen caught it without fumbling. She stood to pivot her chair so she could face him, plopping down with her legs on either side of the backrest.

She leaned forward with her chin atop her folded hands, elbows against the rail. “How exactly were you going to sell it, though? It’s an advanced copy of an unpublished novel, with the name of the King’s Voice written inside the front cover. Clearly stolen. Are you well-acquainted with underground purveyors of romantic literature?”

Taliesen shrugged. “So I hadn’t figured out the details, yet. Most of my best plans arrive spontaneously.”

“Interesting. Most of mine come after careful forethought.”

“Still, this poisoning thing.” He stroked the four-day stubble encroaching on his goatee. “We know Maranzalla’s steward handles all her correspondence. I don’t see why you’re so keen to murder poor Daniella.”

“You raise an excellent point.” Rinna produced a second silver piece - Zevran couldn’t deduce from where - and began dancing it between her brown fingers. “Fortunately, we have etiquette on our side.”

Taliesen merely raised an eyebrow, so she continued. “When we return her book, we’re going to include a letter from a young tradesman. A fictitious young tradesman. In his letter, he’ll explain that there was a mix-up at the publishing house, and Maranzalla’s book was delivered to his address by mistake. He’s a selfless soul, so he’s returning it to her. Specificity sells the act.”

“Specificity?” Zevran considered this. “In his letter, perhaps this fictional individual should allude to his social station. Since he’s bold enough to write directly to a Marquesa. And of course, he’d mention that he shares her enthusiasm for love stories.” The book’s sordid, gilt-leafed title winked at him from its binding. “Or some love-adjacent emotion, anyway.”

Rinna nodded her assent, but Taliesen’s frown deepened as he crossed his arms. On someone else, the gesture might have looked petulant, but against his broad chest, it conveyed easy challenge. “Delightful. But how does this guarantee that Maranzalla’s the first to touch the book?”

The coin rolled effortlessly between Rinna’s fingers. “Per the etiquette of her profession, Daniella would open any introductory letter. But she’d never open a package intended for her mistress.”

“That’s a serious assumption,” Taliesen countered. “If I were her, I’d ignore the letter and open the package first.”

Arguing seemed to fill Rinna with a kind of sharp, cheerful fervor. Zevran thought wryly that she and Taliesen shared that in common. Her riposte came: “You’re not her. And I completed part of my apprenticeship working undercover in a position very much like Daniella’s. I have some insight into how people like her do things.”

Taliesen’s brows twitched together. “I - I didn’t know apprentices got jobs like that.”

“Seems like there’s plenty you don’t know.” She said it in a vindictive rush, seizing a victory. “I’ve got quite a lot of paper here, if you’re keen to begin taking notes.”

Taliesen glanced down to the silver piece in his palm. When he looked back up, he tossed Rinna the coin. Its shimmering arc matched her grin when she caught it.

He said simply, “Alright. So you need someone to forge a formal letter.”

“I noticed from your map that you’ve got very nice handwriting.” Rinna winked at him.

Taliesen’s eyes widened, just slightly. Perhaps Rinna wouldn’t notice, but Zevran knew his friend’s expressions like he knew the feel of his favorite daggers. There was something about their conversation - the way they built off one another’s energy, how they settled into a rhythm - that reminded Zevran of the sparring exercises he’d enjoyed as a recruit. Give and take. The pleasure of challenge without danger. And Taliesen certainly wasn’t alone in finding Rinna enchanting.

Taliesen cleared his throat before he spoke again. “We’ve got to completely sell this letter, then. If you know the in-and-outs of posh servitude, maybe you should play our messenger.”

“Excellent idea.” She looked from one man to the other. “Any further objections I can lay to rest?”

Zevran considered her proposal. The plan’s unorthodoxy was to its advantage. He’d never heard of Crows delivering a poisoned object under an invented persona. Thus, it wasn’t something Maranzalla was likely to expect or prepare against. And, Zevran conceded, not something he and Taliesen ever would have thought of on their own. 

He held out his hands and shrugged his assesent. “It seems to me that we have a letter to write.”

The bed creaked as Taliesen stood and stretched. He stepped over to a writing desk and picked up a clay jar containing a dozen goose feather quills. With exaggerated care, he drew them out one at a time to examine their nibs.

Without looking up, he said lightly, “So you couldn’t come up with a way to break in, either?”

The coin froze its dance across Rinna’s fingers. Her smile soured into an expression Zevran could best describe as 'fondly irritated.’ “With this plan, we don’t have to break in.”

Taliesen squinted at another quill tip before he slid it back into the jar. “I admit, I was looking forward to watching Valisti’s brilliant strategist at work.”

“Still a brilliant strategist. Evidence of that is that I don’t insist on pursuing ideas that aren’t working.” 

After the fourth or fifth quill, Taliesen made a selection that satisfied him. He turned around and regarded her with a teasing smile. “Just a pity you couldn’t do more with my map.”

“Would you like more praise for it?” Rinna's voice had been bitter; now it was acid bright with sarcasm. “You did a marvelous job. I wept when I saw your work, both for its artistic beauty and to know that I would never create anything its equal. You were so thorough, in fact, that you convinced me that I couldn’t have missed an easy way for us to break inside.” 

Zevran would never be so foolish as to tell a woman that she was beautiful when she was angry, but he thought it now. The way Rinna's eyes went hard and gleaming. The way her posture straightened, while the rest of her relaxed into readiness. It was the dangerous ease of a big cat. He was struck with sudden awareness that she looked something like this before she killed people. He’d seen her stance and shoulders when she put an arrow through the throat of Conde Estrada’s guard.

Taliesen, meanwhile, looked taken aback. He ran a hand through his dark hair, before his attempt to mollify her. “It’s a promising plan. I’m just cautious. Can you blame me?”

“Cautious? Maker’s fucking breath, you’re about as far from cautious as I’ve seen a Crow.” With a flick of her wrist, her coin was out of sight. “Apropos of that,” she continued, a little savagely, “Twice is too many times to stumble upon the two of you half-dressed and sucking face.”


	11. A Week and a Day, Part 2

The hours in the villa stable had passed uneventfully. Zevran had spent most of the time carefully cleaning his tools in a bucket of water with lye soap. Patience and careful attention separated one-time poisoners from people who made a habit of it.

The walk back from the grounds was equally mundane. Craggy stone, wild roses, and olive trees gave way to vegetable gardens. They grew around single-story farmhouses with thatched roofs and walls of yellow stone. Soon, thatched roofs turned to tile, and a few buildings boasted a second story, or windows with glass. The thrum of summer insects became indistinct conversation and the clatter of cart wheels. 

As he passed beneath an open gate, Zevran actually felt tension ease from his back. He rolled his neck and shoulders until they relaxed more fully. Empty roads contained unpredictable hazards, but the rhythm of bustling strangers soothed him with its familiarity. The countryside had too many mosquitoes and none of the right smells. Amusing to think that he’d ever hoped to join a Dalish clan. He was a city elf, through-and-through.

Once in the city proper, he offered a few copper pieces to a wagoner headed Dockside to save his boots the wear. It was a lovely afternoon, fading into evening. The day’s heat had broken and low clouds painted the sky rose gold. A gentle breeze cooled the sweat on his brow, promising an evening rain. 

By the time he reached his apartment, the common room was crowded for supper. Most of the residents paid their landlady for a meal on weekdays, and the hour before dinner was a pleasant time for conversation or cards. Zevran and Taliesen frequently joined in. They maintained a cordial relationship with their neighbors, although none were aware of the pair’s true profession.

Embers smoldered in the fireplace, kept low for cooking. A large stew pot sat on a grate just above the flames. Whatever was inside smelled wonderfully of garlic and fennel. Zevran reminded himself that he only had time to return his poisoner's kit and change his clothes.

His stomach protested. The cook fire drew his gaze.

It was then that he noticed Rinna sitting in a chair near the hearth. She was staring into the fireplace, brows furrowed, picking absently at a threadbare patch on the chair’s upholstered arm. She’d changed out of her elaborate servant’s disguise and wore a simple laced tunic and breeches again. Her tightly curled hair haloed her face in the evening light.

Surprised to see her, Zevran went over to say hello.

“Not ready to be rid of us yet?” he teased, drawing beside the chair.

Rinna looked up at him. She wore an expression he hadn't seen before on her heart-shaped face. There’d been joy and anger, thoughtfulness and awkwardness, but this was… haggard. An unguarded exhaustion.

“I was waiting for someone,” she said simply. “But at this point, I think it’s fair to say she’s not coming.”

“Who stood you up?”

“Former squadmate,” was all Rinna offered.

Zevran had same feeling as when she’d reacted to Taliesen’s teasing, the last time the three of them had spoken. But today, he could identify it. It was the sense that she was deliberately withholding information. He debated prying, but thought better of it for now. “How long have you been waiting?”

“What time is it?”

“Sixth hour of the evening?” he ventured.

“Couple hours.”

He settled across from her in an empty armchair. He wanted to ask her about her piece of the job this afternoon. While their voices blended with the low din in the common room, they could hardly discuss assassination in public places. 

Instead, he said simply, “The sun will set soon. Do you have far to travel to get back home?” 

She flashed him a tired smile. “Kind of. But it's still Dockside. I’ll be alright.”

“I would invite you to simply spend the night here. But with only two rooms to choose between, any bed-sharing would rather complicate your orders, hmm?”

Unexpectedly, her smile turned wry. “You’ll be out tonight with the next phase of your work, won’t you? I could just take your bed.”

“Convenient,” Zevran chuckled, a little surprised that she’d play along. “But if all goes according to plan, Daniella’s utility will rather diminish. I confess I have no particular desire to spend another night with her, for her own sake.” Meanwhile, he fought against the mental image of Rinna’s skin against his dark sheets.

“Shame. Guess I’m going home, then.” Her smile remained, but her gaze slid back to the fire. She crossed her arms over her chest, and the two of them fell silent again. Whatever this meeting was supposed to be, its loss had clearly set her on-edge.

An idea struck him. “Our landlady will have dinner ready soon. My portion is already paid for. If you like, you can take mine before your journey back.”

He was rewarded with another new expression to appreciate. Rinna’s eyes softened with genuine gratitude. “I can’t say no to that. But what will you eat?”

Zevran shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll invite Daniella to dinner. Seafood fits the sailor bit, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Rinna sighed and lowered her voice. “Maker, I hope she didn’t touch that damn book.”

* * *

“‘Sucking face?’ Crudely put, don't you think?” Zevran said. 

It wasn’t the first thing that came to mind. The first was, _Feeling left out, are we?_ The second was, _Third time’s the charm, as they say._ Who said he had no impulse control?

Rinna frowned, anyway. “How is it remotely possible that your Arainai maestros haven’t noticed?”

“Because it doesn’t affect our work.” Taliesen’s tone was a warning. He plopped down at the table beside Zevran, his search for quill and ink forgotten.

Zevran shrugged. “Because we don’t spend much time around the guildhall.” Taliesen shot him a glare for his honesty, which Zevran ignored.

A beleaguered sigh made Rinna’s shoulders rise and fall. “Look. We have a woman we need to murder, so I kind of need you two to focus.”

Zevran raised an affronted eyebrow.

She was clearly searching for words, and clearly annoyed that she had to make an effort. Her argento reappeared in her hand, but she just worried it with her thumb, rather than knuckle-walking it. She hitched another sigh, and Zevran imagined her trying to rekindle her indignation.

Rinna began again. “Here’s how I see it. You continue your relationship - ”

Zevran couldn’t help that his eyes flicked sideways. He would not have used the word _relationship_ to describe their arrangement, but if Taliesen had any opinions about it, his expression didn’t betray them. The taller man had gone Crow-faced: carefully neutral as he kept his attention on Rinna.

“- and through distraction or negligence, you fuck up this mission. The blame falls on my head,” Rinna said flatly. “ _Or_ , someone from your house finds out, and they’ll know I didn’t say anything, either to the two of you directly, or to our maestros. The blame falls on my head.”

Taliesen opened his mouth, but Zevran cut him off with a hand on his knee. He met Rinna’s deep brown eyes. “Clearly, we have made you uncomfortable. I apologize. You may not believe me, but I am well acquainted with the virtues of discretion. And its exercise.”

She shook her head. “I’m a strategist. I see possibilities and likelihoods.” She went back to rolling the coin. “From here, I see two ways to proceed. One, you stop sleeping together until we complete this contract, eliminating this particular complication. Two, I mention your relationship to our maestros, and it’s eliminated because I followed the rules laid out for us.”

Zevran felt a tendril of fear take root in his stomach, but its blossoms were irritation. He never forgot for a moment that Rinna was a Crow, but there was nothing like a threat to sour his attraction.

He kept his voice light. “Compañera, you led me to believe we were of one mind on the ‘too many rules’ business.”

“Can’t believe you’re going to make me say this, but it’s a rule for a reason." Hearing her parrot the words was irritating; Zevran didn't believe she particularly cared. She continued with, "Sex is distracting. Relationships are exploitable.”

Then her tone softened, just a touch, and she searched his face almost earnestly. “I try to be strategic about the rules I follow and the rules I choose to break. Since I’m new to this house, I’d prefer to play things very safe. While we finish this mission, keep things platonic between yourselves. Once Maranzalla’s on the pyre, do whatever you please.”

There was one more thing he wanted to test. One more possible motivation for her sudden order.

“And are you holding yourself to that, as well?” The ratio of seriousness-to-suggestiveness in Zevran’s tone was carefully calibrated. His smirk was artfully disarming. “As soon as we finish this mission, you’ll do whatever you please?”

Rinna’s skin was too dark to show a flush, but Zevran watched her hands. She fumbled the silver piece she fidgeted with. It hit the floor with a soft ping.

To her credit, she found her composure quickly. When Rinna met his eyes again, her smile was sardonic disinterest. “Don’t test me, compañero.”

And there it was.

Despite the small victory, Zevran still found himself mostly angry, distantly afraid. Of course he understood self-preservation. He’d never fault her for it.

But although he couldn’t articulate his feeling, he knew his frustration coalesced around concern for Taliesen. The man would have worked himself to death years ago, or died doing something stupid trying to show off, had Zevran not been a tempering influence. Seeing him so ill-at-ease after events at Estrada, and so wild-eyed over their current job, made something in Zevran ache.

Taliesen thought that work made him worthy. That work could sate the dread that lurked like a specter in the back of every Crow’s mind. But Zevran had seen over the years that pleasure was a better salve for fear. One had to remember that there was more to life than killing, coin, and the whims of their masters. Of course it didn’t have to be sex, but why _shouldn’t_ it be sex? 

It was more than the act itself. It was the easy way they touched each other, now. The way they could recognize the other’s silhouette in near-darkness. That both found it simpler to say things with actions than words. That the nights they shared a bed, they slept more soundly. Zevran didn’t want to lose any of it. Not when it was a measure of freedom he felt they’d earned.

He looked over at Taliesen. The taller man leaned back against his seat with his arms crossed. He hadn't noticed his uneven buttons, even when his shirt was pulled taught across his chest by his pose. His shoulders were tight, but his face was thoughtful.

It was hard to tell if he shared any of Zevran’s sentiments. Nevertheless, his response was easy to guess, because Taliesen abhorred being told what to do. If someone commanded him to eat a buffet of his favorite foods, he’d go to bed hungry out of spite.

Which is why Zevran was shocked to hear him softly say, “Fine. We’ll stop for now.”

Zevran knew his surprise shone on his face, so he smoothed his features back into a smile. Still, he couldn’t resist another jab. “Very well. We shall endeavor to not be distracted. Or distracting.”

If Rinna caught the implication, she ignored it. Her tone lightened considerably. “Good. And with that out of the way - I believe we’ve got a letter to write.”

Shadows lengthened on the wall as afternoon faded to evening. It took multiple attempts on scrap paper to come up with something that satisfied all three of them. Lines were scratched roughly, crossed out, then rewritten. Drafting a short paragraph took the better part of an hour of lively bickering. The most heated debate was if they should sign the letter or leave it anonymous. Eventually, Rinna convinced them that an unsigned note screamed suspicion. Taliesen got credit for choosing the name. 

Thus, “Illandro Costanza” was born.

Once they settled on the text, Taliesen took it upon himself to recopy the letter onto expensive stationary. Rinna left him to his task, but Zevran stayed behind in the darkening bedroom.

On the far wall, Taliesen’s pinned sketches fluttered in the evening breeze. He sat beside Zevran, bent low over a piece of parchment. He held his quill loosely, high on the shaft in an artist’s grip.

The shirt had been bothering Zevran for hours, now. He stood and came up behind Taliesen, draping brown arms over broad shoulders. His fingers found the topmost button and unfastened it deftly.

“Zev.” A warning rumble.

“It’s uneven,” he replied, nearly against Taliesen’s ear. “And with your left hand injured, I thought I could lend some assistance.”

Taliesen's shoulders stiffened. He replaced his quill in its inkwell and shrugged the elf away.

Frowning slightly, Zevran pushed the parchment to one side and hopped up to sit on table's edge. He crossed one leg over the other, regarding Taliesen thoughtfully. “I thought perhaps you were just telling her what she wanted to hear.”

Taliesen didn't meet his eyes. “She’s right. It _is_ a distraction.”

While Zevran would never push the issue, the rejection stung unexpectedly. “If that is what you wish, my friend, it shall be so.” He made himself smile. “Not too much to ask, truth be told. Our plan is a sound one; our Marquesa will be be dead in a week.” He raised a rakish eyebrow. “After that, we celebrate.”

Taliesen paused for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it was slow and measured. “Rinna is the only person in Arainai who knows. If she ever wants to make life difficult for us, as long as we keep this up, she'll always have it as a dagger at our backs.”

Zevran’s voice softened to match. “Well, she may be a strategist, but she missed a third possibility.” He touched Taliesen’s chin and tilted his face upward. “One, you and I end things. Two, she tells our maestros. But three - if she’s our lover, she’s caught in the same bind we are.”

Taliesen blinked. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Not remotely.”

He barked an incredulous laugh. “That’s fairly devious.”

Zevran released his chin with a little shrug. “I do kill people for a living.”

Taliesen whistled low approval. “Not that this possibility isn’t… intriguing. But don’t get distracted, Zev. Maybe we’ll return to this idea once Maranzalla’s dead.”

“Of course. In a week’s time.”

“A week - if you let me finish copying this,” Taliesen said dryly. He prodded Zevran’s leg with two fingers until he eased off the table. As Zevran’s boots touched the floor, Taliesen picked up his quill again. “Just one outstanding question. How will we know if this poisoned book worked or not?”

* * *

Daniella wasn’t at the bar when he arrived.

Zevran ordered an ale, but didn’t touch it again after his first sip. He leaned against the polished wood counter and talked trivialities with the bartender: the coming rain, how business had been, news of a tax increase from a faction on the City Council. Meanwhile, worry slowly overtook his thoughts. His eyes darted to the door whenever someone new entered. This was infrequent; it was a Monday evening and business was slow.

He’d made this date with Daniella when they’d last parted ways. Perhaps “Matias the smuggler” wasn't a priority to her - she was entitled to a brief diversion as much as anyone. Perhaps she’d made other plans. Perhaps she’d wanted to be here, but was overtired, or held up at work. 

Perhaps Rinna’s guess about etiquette had been incorrect, and he had killed Daniella in a gruesome mistake.

He could picture it clearly. Mancinella resin would first blister the skin it touched - probably the tips of her fingers. Instantly, she’d notice a burning sensation, a craggy allergic rash opening into bleeding lesions. Then it would be in her bloodstream. About two minutes of swelling in her hands and arms, until it reached her heart, which would inflate and then collapse under the rapid strain. And then she'd be an unlovely corpse, the rash advancing over her skin even after her heart stopped beating.

He remembered kissing the paper cut at the tip of her finger.

Zevran downed his ale and excused himself abruptly. He left a tip too generous to be forgettable, and left the bartender staring curiously after him as he disappeared into the gloomy night.

A light drizzle soaked Zevran's tunic as he walked the Vespara district. Soon, his hair stuck to his face, and he pushed it behind his ears with a quick, irritated tug. A few strands caught on his new earring. He untangled them with a soft curse.

He went along the route he remembered toward Daniella's apartment. Vespara's cobbled streets were narrow but well-kept. Flowers in window boxes bobbed in the rain. Every window shutter was closed against the weather, but slivers of gold lamplight shone between the cracks.

After a few minutes, he reached a familiar, clay-bricked section of the block, with balconies at each third-floor window.

Zevran squinted upward. Daniella's dark, open window was a drowning mouth. Her unlatched shutters rattled like teeth.

The street was nearly empty, so nobody bothered him as he stood at the corner, staring up at that window for an untold length of time. When the rain turned heavier, he had no choice but to head for home.

Water dripped from his hair and his shirttails onto the floor of the common room. The evening lamps were lit, but none of the other residents remained around the tables or fireplace. Rinna, too, had gone.

* * *

Zevran returned to the bar the next evening. He ordered the same ale, which today somehow tasted more bitter than sour. He couldn’t cajole himself into making the same smalltalk with the bartender. Instead, he sat alone at a table facing the entrance.

Just after sunset, he saw her.

Daniella shouldered her way through the swinging door, looking harried and damp. Harried and damp, but alive and well.

Her face lit up when she spotted him, which made a match for Zevran’s own expression. He nearly flew to the door, grateful enough to see her that his greeting kiss was sincere. When he pulled away, he quickly appraised her. Bare hands, nothing burned. Dress and bodice in burgundy and rose, wet from the drizzle that persisted from the previous day. Despite the powder on her olive skin, she had circles beneath her eyes that were darker than what he’d noticed a week ago.

Daniella kissed him again before they settled across from each other at his table. “Matias, I hoped you’d be back! I’m terribly sorry about yesterday. You wouldn’t believe the day I had.”

He smiled, his heart hammered in his chest. _Your employer perished unexpectedly?_ “Feel free to tell me everything.”

She fingered the stem of her wineglass. He’d paid again, because he was an Antivan man who felt some things should be done properly. Even if he was only using her to find out if he’d successfully assassinated her boss. Come to think of it, that was probably the most Antivan part of it all.

Daniella launched into her story. “I told you the Marquesa has essentially turned me into a courier, didn’t I? Just collecting packages at the gate all day?”

“Truly, a waste of your talent and ability,” Zevran said somberly.

“Well, now my demotion is official. I’ve been reduced to delivering letters.” Daniella pulled an envelope out from her bodice and slapped it down onto the table. It was a little wrinkled, but dry and intact. “Yes, she _did_ say the letter was important, but I’m not paid to run errands in the city for her!” 

There was a single line of text, written in the top corner. Two words in fine, spidery handwriting. A dimly-familiar publishing company, and a surname that Taliesen had invented a week ago.

 _Woodhaven - Costanza._

Zevran went very still, staring mutely at the envelope on the table. Was Maranzalla alive, then? Had she... replied to their letter?

Fortunately, Daniella was content to carry on the conversation for him, following another sip of her wine. “I’ve got no idea where this place is. I’m familiar with Woodhaven, of course, but she expects me to go as if I know my way around Dockside.” 

Daniella’s dismissive sniff after the name of Zevran’s neighborhood - the neighborhood he had _upgraded_ to after the end of his apprenticeship - reminded him exactly why he hadn’t been eager to repeat this encounter.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the envelope. A strange feeling was settling on his stomach - giddy adrenaline. He found himself thanking Andraste, Shartan, Cathaire, Maferath - every figure from the Chant that sprung to mind. 

The letter they’d written said there was mix-up with the publishers. If Maranzalla wanted to reach “Illandro Costanza,” of course she’d go through the publishing house to communicate with him. But Daniella hadn’t been able to find the place, so she’d shown this letter to _him,_ first.

It wasn’t the first ridiculous coincidence that had saved his life. Somehow, he suspected it wouldn’t be the last. If he ever found that fortune teller again, he’d kiss her with tongue.

At last, Zevran tore his eyes from the letter and found the wherewith all to sip his ale. It tasted better than it had at the beginning of the evening. His words sounded distant to his own ears. “As you’ve said, I’m certain you have many more important duties than something like this. If you’d like, I could deliver this letter for you.”

Daniella laughed. “You’re very sweet, Matias, but don’t be ridiculous. It’s not worth the trouble.”

“But it’s no trouble to me at at,” he replied, feigning calm. “As a matter of fact, I think I’ve seen this publishing house. Woodhaven? My lodgings are nearby.”

“Really? You’re staying Dockside? I thought I remembered you saying Mercante district.”

Inwardly, Zevran cursed. He was a little past caring if he kept his story straight from their previous meeting. Outwardly, he merely shrugged. “Well, we don’t wish to burn through all our funds. Dockside may be less glamorous, but my crewmates and I have an easier time searching for a new ship.”

“Of course. Sensible.” Daniella looked suddenly coy. “If you were to invite me back to your inn, that would make it simple for me to deliver the letter in the morning…”

Persistent, he had to give her that. Zevran lowered his voice to a tease. “A tempting offer, my dear. Unfortunately, I’m staying in a shared room. I’m not so certain my crewmates would appreciate a public performance, lovely as you may be.”

She flushed, both scandalized and pleased. “My place again, then?”

Zevran sighed. “Ah, and here I must disappoint you twice. I have a meeting with a shipwright at the eighth hour of the morning.” 

Daniella stuck out her lip in an exaggerated pout. Zevran’s answering chuckle was nearly sincere. He put his hand over hers and said softly, “Let me make it up to you by delivering your Marquesa’s letter.”

She cracked a smile, relenting. “At least you’ll be of _some_ use to me.” She slid the envelope across the table toward him. He took it with a hand that somehow did not tremble.

Once he’d slid it into a vest pocket, Daniella asked, “When will I see you again?”

He spread his hands in a shrug. “That depends on how well our negotiations go with the shipwright. Perhaps in a week? But if we acquire the vessel we hope for, it might be… some time.”

Zevran barely registered the rest of their conversation. He finished his ale, she finished her wine. He laughed when he was supposed to, and she laughed when he expected her to. At the end of an evening that took somewhere between an hour and an Age, he kissed her cheek chastely and was out into the night.

He hurried back through the rain, hoping his vest was enough to keep the envelope and its contents dry. It felt like a leaden weight against his breast.


End file.
